


Bound in Blight and Bliss

by MB234



Series: Atani & Eldarin: Tales of Antilogy and Accord in Middle Earth [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF Thranduil, During The Hobbit, Elves, F/M, Halfling, Middle Earth, Mirkwood, POV Thranduil, Peredhel, Reader-Insert, Reincarnation, Sassy Reader, Slow Burn, war and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:43:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB234/pseuds/MB234
Summary: You weren’t exactly hiding from the Mirkwood Royal Guard, more accurately you were just evading them.Hiding insinuated fear, and you were certainly not afraid, just majorly inconvenienced. Tactful evasion; that’s what you specialized in, and indeed you had been successfully dodging them for a few months now, luring them just close enough to convince them that they were closing in before you’d slip gleefully out of their ever-reaching grasp. You could always hear them, they were exceptionally loud for fully blooded wood-elves, crashing through the thick brush, skulking around the smooth-barked trees, their masterfully carved bows notched with razor sharp arrows and their high pointed ears keen. Indelibly you’d be crouched in the wood high above them, limbs curled around the sturdy arm of an ancient arbor, your breath still as an icy winters morn, your own gently pointed ears twitching as you listened intently to their fading steps.When the Reader gets captured and taken to Thranduil's court she gets more than she bargained for. Will the cold, imposing, handsome Elvenking be her doom, or will this fiery, unmannerly halfling be his salvation?Thranduil x reader





	1. Sable and Silver

You weren’t exactly _hiding_ from the Mirkwood Royal Guard, more accurately you were just _evading_ them.

 

Hiding insinuated fear, and you were certainly not afraid, just majorly inconvenienced. Tactful evasion; that’s what you specialized in, and indeed you had been successfully dodging them for a few months now, luring them just close enough to convince them that they were closing in before you’d slip gleefully out of their ever-reaching grasp. You could always hear them, they were exceptionally loud for fully blooded wood-elves, crashing through the thick brush, skulking around the smooth-barked trees, their masterfully carved bows notched with razor sharp arrows and their high pointed ears keen. Indelibly you’d be crouched in the wood far above them, limbs curled around the sturdy arm of an ancient arbor, your breath still as an icy winters morn, your own gently pointed ears twitching as you listened intently to their fading steps.

 

You knew why they hunted you; technically you shouldn’t be alive, your very existence was contraband in this kingdom. You were the product of an Elven woman and a mortal man’s marriage, a relationship not held in high favor by the Elvenking, and further doomed by the fates to end in tragedy, and so it indelibly had. After enjoying a short, but happy and fulfilling childhood with you, both of your parents had died suddenly within weeks of each other when you were hardly even a teenager, leaving you to fend for yourself. You’d wandered from town to town across Middle Earth, picking up odd skills and making a hint of coin wherever you could. You had hastily discovered that your hybrid looks usually turned far too many heads for your liking, the potential dangers that those lingering stares and meaningful glances held in their glinting depths forcing you to quickly learn how to expertly blend in, to seamlessly assimilate. You grew your thick, shining hair long enough to braid or sweep over the telling tips of your ears and kohled your eyes a stark, smudged black to disguise their distinctly Elven shape and hue. Your garb was indicative of a ranger, from the short, coarse cloak that snapped about your calves and rippled around your sim shoulders to reveal teasing glimpses of a molded, formfitting leather corset and matching skintight breeches, both traded for six moons worth of stable cleaning, down to the rough, travel weary boots that hugged your slender feet. The human half of your parentage had gifted you with a markedly un-elven like short stature, but your mother’s heritage had assured that your form still held all the standard grace of her fair people. Thus, you had to work to mask the lilting gait of your limbs when in public, and delighted in exploiting them to your formidable advantage when evading less than desirable forces like the ones hot on your heels now.

 

As you slipped nimbly through the brush that clung close to the forest floor, the wide sweeping ferns and twisting vines seemed to leap out of your way to allow you to glide unhindered between them. You were careful not to step unkindly on their roots, for you knew they could feel the intent in your agile, urgent gait, your reverence and excitement thrumming down between your toes, deep into the soil below, and as if in gratitude for your forethought they cleared from your path easily. In times like these you were immensely grateful for your mother’s light-footedness and deep Elven spirituality; you couldn’t imagine being on the run, or running at all for that matter, without the connection that her parentage provided you with nature. And better still, your father’s influence had assured that you weren’t above playing dirty, like say, by rigging a few traps to harmlessly ensnare some of the Mirkwood King’s more tenacious guards.

 

It was their own fault really, they had surprised you while you supped, their footsteps appearing as if out of nowhere, forcing you to hesitantly abandon the rabbit you’d skewered on the spit that twirled dolorously above the small fire you’d painstakingly made and dart hastily into the thick wood. Normally you would have had time to climb up into a nearby tree and wait patiently for them to clear out, but you’d been so starving and engrossed in your bountiful catch that you hadn’t noticed their approach. Damn, maybe all this incessant running was beginning to dull your keen senses. That was a dangerous prospect for a vagabond like you.

 

You didn’t dare steal a glance behind you, for judging by the crescendo in their rhythmic steps you could tell that the guards were gaining on you. Willing the speed and strength of the roaring seas gusting zephyrs to fill your limbs you ran harder, more urgently into the thick wood that spread out endlessly before you, narrowly missing many of the wide trunks that peppered the sun dappled thicket. The increased exertion began to catch up with you despite your young age and Elven blood, the struggle making your breath rattle harshly from your lungs. Despite the gravity of the situation you could still take a moment to appreciate the pure _joy_ that your freedom afforded you; the warm wind whistling through your trailing hair, the burning heat searing deep in your nimble limbs, the fierce adrenaline curling in your chest, bursting bravely through your collarbones. You felt whole, complete, _alive_ , and damn the soul that would attempt to take that feeling from you.

 

At that very moment a glint of gold so pale it was nearly white caught in the corner of your eye, trapping your heedful attention. A sudden jolt of real panic sizzled through your veins then as you wondered incredulously if the Monarch of Mirkwood himself had joined in on your hunt this day. You’d heard rumors of the Woodland King; of his cold, stoic demeanor and handsome, starlit countenance, of his steadfast devotion and grief for his dead wife and his involvement in the reclaiming of the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor. Would the King himself really care so much about one random vagrant that he’d come to see her captured himself? Why did that thought cause heated, molten sparks of something bright and igneous to sear to life deep in your belly? Why did it have the corners of your parted lips curling traitorously and your hasty steps slowing fractionally, inexplicably?

 

You couldn’t stop the gasp that fell from your lips when you felt the sharp kiss of an arrow sinking suddenly into the flesh of your right bicep, causing you to slow marginally. Though it was just a flesh wound the pain was intense, making you stumble uncharacteristically on a root that your uninjured self could have avoided with little effort. You panted hard as you shifted hastily to your knees, bringing the shaking fingers of one hand up to test the tender, smarting flesh of your arm, feeling the slick drip of crimson blood from the wound pooling hotly on your digits, your trembling touch ghosting along the invading shaft of the arrow embedded firmly in your skin.

 

A wicked curse slipped from your lips as you watched that spill of white blond hair draw closer from the corner of your eye, that lofty head burning, searing like an alabaster flame in your vision. You had barely the space of a heartbeat to try to rise to your feet before the cold bite of a slim knife was pressed menacingly to your exposed throat.

 

You stilled instantly, noting from the fine make of the blade and the steady hand of its wielder that it was someone highborn, royal even. _Had_ the King actually come to your capture this day? You suddenly questioned what exactly the Royal Guard had been hunting you for; were you just a mere trespasser or was there more at play here beneath the roiling surface of the late summer leaves?

 

“Move and my knife will slide clean and true through your neck.”

 

The voice that spoke was young but undeniably male, thrumming with stately power, filled with an ease of command that further convinced you that this was a royal, if not the King then a member of his court. You reluctantly assented to the stranger’s commands, preferring your admittedly appealing throat to remain intact, though you did dare to chance a sideways glance at the face of the antagonist at your side. The features that met your curious, if not disquieted gaze were young and handsome, though they didn’t hold any of the weight or wisdom that you’d expect a King’s to. There was still a hint of boyish charm around his cheekbones, of mirth dancing in his intense, celadon eyes that belayed his age. You weren’t sure how you knew, but you were certain that this wasn’t the King. Then by the Valar, who was he?

 

“What now, my Prince? Kill her?” One of the nearby guards asked, his deadly bow notched and raised, one of his lethal arrows pointed directly at your pounding heart. You threw him a venomous glare, you recognized his dirty blond hair and slightly crooked nose, he’d been on your trail for at least a few weeks now, but his gaze remained steadfast and reverent on his liege. So this was the Prince of Mirkwood…

 

He was a bit shorter than you expected. What, the Elvenking couldn’t be bothered to show up himself, so he sent his son to fetch his toys for him? That errant thought sent a bolt of annoyance skittering in your chest, making renewed fire burst in your veins. Your huffed in deep, steeling breaths, working hard to keep your stirring muscles from lashing out, your raised fingers itching to reach behind your neck to grasp the twin daggers strapped on your back, hidden beneath the thick fall of your plaited hair. You refused to be captured, even if that meant you’d be killed in the process. Your freedom was of paramount import to you, you were firmly convinced you’d _die_ if you were forced to be some arrogant, incurious King’s quarry.

 

“No,” The Mirkwood Prince said, his head canting to the side as that azure gaze swept over your admittedly travel ragged form, his eyes glinting with something close to appraisal, “Take her to my father. He will want to see her.”

 

_Ha!_ Over your dead body! Huffing in a quick, emboldening breath you reached, lightning fast, for one of the cutlasses ready at your back, raising your hand to plunge the wicked blade deep into your breast, but that damned, stars accursed Prince was just a tick faster than you and the iron bands of his fingers closed around your wrist before you could sink the dagger home. Something like sympathy flashed in his clear gaze before he spoke.  


 

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, female.”

 

Blind, red rage flashed behind your eyes, true panic and fear bubbling in your chest, spurring you to reach up to pluck the arrow from your shoulder, intent on using its barbed tip to lance clean through your own eye, when Crooked Nose raised the blunt edge of his bow and struck you full force on the temple, making stars erupt from the corners of your vision. You felt your balance flee suddenly from your person and as those tell-tale tinges of black began to seep into view you grasped pleadingly at the strong fingers that the Prince had wrapped around your wrist.

 

_Kill me! Don’t take me alive!_ Your mind railed, instincts rioting valiantly against the fading strength of your faulty body.

You tried to scream, to thrash, to _fight_ but your world was fading too fast, slipping from beneath your feet like the ebbing tide, ripped suddenly, cruelly from you. The very last thing you registered before everything around you, the trees and forest that you loved, the ancient arbors that you made your home in, deserted you for the inky blackness of unconsciousness was the Mirkwood Prince sharing a long, appreciative look with that infernal guard of his and muttering, “You cannot say she doesn’t have spirit.”

 

And then you knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I was inspired to write this story after re-watching The Hobbit, and I thought, what if Thranduil's wife was reborn? Or better yet, what if he thought she was reborn when really he was just too stubborn to admit that he was falling for someone else? Thus, this fic was born! I wanna make it moderately long, so the next chapters will probably more around 5,000 - 10,000 words, but for now if you enjoyed please let me know! Your feedback is treasured and appreciated, thank you so much for reading! We'll see our favorite Elf King in the next chapter for sure!
> 
> P.S. I love making mood board's for my fics, so later today I'll post a mood board for chapter 1! Enjoy!  
> EDIT: Here it is!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/159358519149/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-1-sable-and


	2. Ash and Amethyst

As far as dungeons went, the Elven cell that you found yourself sealed in was far from dank and depraved. In fact, it was dry, arid even, the mild air parched and yet remarkably drafty. All in all, this was not the worst way you had ever spent an evening. You had arisen here in the Mirkwood prison with fleeting, clouded memories of exactly how you’d arrived, a dull ache throbbing smartly in your sore temple and your numerous, treasured weapons regrettably missing from their respective hiding places on your body. The Elves had taken every last trace of armaments that you had concealed on your person, even snatching the small, relatively harmless blades stashed in the lining of your boots. You frowned deeply to find that your pack, the beaten, shabby truss that held every possession that you had inherited, borrowed or stolen in this world, was missing as well. The Woodland Elves were nothing if not thorough.

 

You were left in just your dusty cloak, tight leather corset and matching breeches, somehow feeling more naked and exposed without your weapons than if the Fair Folk had simply stripped you right down to your bare skin. Groaning from the seemingly momentous effort that it took to rouse yourself to full consciousness, you sat up, painstakingly slipping off your worn boots and rubbing your tired feet as you gathered yourself, thinking carefully about your next steps. After the roaring blaze of emotion that had thundered through you prior to your untimely capture your beating chest felt hollow, ringing bitterly with the cavernous echoes of defeat. Your limbs ached to stretch, to burn with the blazing bliss of freedom that you had enjoyed for so long. You fought back a deep sigh, not allowing your weeping heart to fully resign itself to your dark fate, adamant that despite these seemingly dismal circumstances, this was not where your story ended.

 

You were still alive, and you had your wits about you. With the right opportunity and a healthy dose of luck you could make it out of this intact, maybe even better than when you’d started. After all, you _had_ been getting sorely tired of sleeping in trees and supping on Elderberry’s. Your stomach rumbled for meat and wine, for sustenance beyond what you alone could forage. You felt a sudden stab of longing for the hare that you’d had to abandon earlier. You imagined it was cooked to perfection right about now.

 

Sighing, forcing your frazzled mind to other things, you took a brief moment to scrub a hand over your face, feeling all the nameless grime and dirt caked on your skin. You tried to see the haggard figure that you cut just then, hair swept haphazardly from your face in a twist secured at the crown of your head, the long remaining strands woven carelessly into a plait that lay heavy over one slumped shoulder, clothes rumpled and worn with age and the demands of life on the run, eyes saddled with dark, heavy bags, mouth set in a grim line. You wouldn’t want to be in the company of others looking as worn and weary as you currently did.

 

At the thought of future social engagements bright, stark memory sparked, hot and fierce, from the depths of your addled mind and you remembered suddenly the parting words of the flaunting, sonorous Mirkwood Prince…

_“No,” The Prince said, his head canting to the side as that azure gaze swept over your admittedly travel ragged form, his eyes glinting with something close to appraisal, “Take her to my father. He will want to see her.”_

 

Your eyes snapped open wide with novel surprise and rage, your lips parting as you gasped anew. You were to meet the King! And if the lateness of the hour was any indication, then your audience would be soon. A fresh wave of stubbornness rang through you as that realization sunk in, making your arms cross over your chest and your brow furrow deeply. If his Royal Highness thought that you were some slave that he could torment and torture to his liking, then he was sorely mistaken. You’d rather perish than belong to any male, King or otherwise. No, you’d escape with your freedom or die trying.

 

And yet, why did the lofty prospect of meeting the revered, imposing sovereign that you’d heard so many glorious, chimerical tales of spark a small flame of excitement deep within you, in those hidden places you didn’t dare explore, in those half-forgotten hollows where bright tendrils of hope bloomed gloriously within you.

 

You tried valiantly to turn away from those resilient impulses, from that iron clad, whimsical curiosity that whispered in your breast, but try as you might you couldn’t quite stop the fingers that rose to smooth your hair and comb through your tangled locks, or the forearm that swiped across your face, loosing much of the dirt from your features. You huffed, annoyed with yourself, but still helpless to admit that the shadow of this King was a long one.

 

At that moment an auburn haired guard strode into the dungeons, his booted feet ringing in the empty, cavernous space. He came to a stop before the door to your cell, one hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword, the other holding a glinting key, a glimmering promise of your possible liberty.

 

“Stand to the back of your cell, prisoner.” His voice was high and somewhat grating, not nearly as pleasant as the Princes, nor the King’s you imagined. You frowned as that last thought flitted traitorously through your mind even as you obeyed the guards’ commands, though your servitude was more out of manipulation than real submission. You could easily feign obedience until you found an appropriate window for escape.

 

Once you’d heeded his words the guard unlocked the heavy, creaking door and gestured for you to come forward, a pair of sturdy manacles rattling cruelly at his belt. It stung your very soul to have your hands bound behind your back, but you let the infernal soldier complete his bitter task, somewhat soothed by the knowledge that this fettered state was only temporary.

 

As you were led through the sprawling, winding passages of the Elvenking’s halls you marveled shamelessly at the expert craftsmanship of the Kingdom that lay before you. Wide, sunlight corridors and tall wooden pillars made up the great palace, interspersed with leveled platforms that looked as though they were naturally formed, but you were sure the Elven builders had designed that with intention. In truth, you were amazed with this dwelling; it held an abundance of finery the likes of which you had never known in all your hard, tragedy filled life. You found your mouth hanging shamelessly slack as you reached the throne room. You were so enthralled by the stately abode before you that you had nearly forgotten the purpose for your journey through it, though you were poignantly reminded by the harsh rapping of the couriers’ staff at the throne room entrance.

 

As the guard that led you here unchained your wrists, obviously sure that you wouldn’t try to flee in the King’s presence, you found your heart suddenly pounding in your throat, your palms slickening with sweat and your pulse racing briskly. You were to meet the Elvenking in mere moments, and then in the space of a few heartbeats your bitter fate would be decided. You wished fervently then that you had a weapon of some sort, even a measly length of wire with which to conceal beneath your sleeve for protection, but these Elves were vexingly careful and irritatingly cynical of all outsiders, as they well should be. They didn’t afford you as much as an inch, knowing full well that you’d take a mile.

 

You would have mulled over that provoking thought further if you hadn’t at that very moment spied the Elvenking himself, sprawled out almost lazily on his immense, finely crafted wooden throne, his cerulean gaze downturned in apparent boredom, ring bedecked hands busy with some scrap of parchment that no doubt held titillating figures of his Kingdoms current formidable wealth and status.

 

You took the precious, unobserved moments before the herald announced your arrival to marvel unabashedly at him without any hints of shame or hidden intent. Even in your resentful, irate state you could admit that the King of the Elves was _stunning_ ; smooth falls of white-blond hair tumbled down a wide, brocade clad chest to sway gracefully at his trim, sturdy waist, the fine, heavy robe that sat about his expansive shoulders fell carelessly open at his parted knees to showcase wide, graspable hips and long, strong legs splayed casually at the foot of his carven throne. Numerous rings glittered about his long lithe fingers, each one catching your eye playfully as he flexed his wide grasp. Atop his pale, graceful head sat a crown of spiked branches interspersed with ripe looking berries and leaves, both beautiful and dangerous, alluring and deadly, much like the imposing monolith of a male himself.

 

The breath was swiftly stolen from your lungs when that accursed herald rapped his staff twice, securely capturing the King’s attention, causing that intense, ethereal gaze to fall indelibly upon you. You knew that Elves possessed an indescribable, otherworldly power, a celestial pull of sorts, after all you’d used it to your own bountiful advantage in the past, to aid in the securing of a horse from a human or the swindling of a Dwarf out of his dinner, but due to your contraband status you’d had limited contact with others of your ilk and their own spellbinding influences. Now, trapped by the Elvenking’s tenuous, enrapturing, icy gaze, you could finally say that you understood the effects.

 

Your breath reluctantly returned to your breast when he rose to his full, astounding height, impressive even for an Elf, and drifted down the steps of the dais towards you, your comparative compact size making you feel utterly vulnerable and defenseless in the weight of his immense shadow. You had the sudden urge to back up a pace or two, but that unflinching stubbornness roared to life deep in your chest once more, adding steadying, leaden weight to your unflinching stance. You couldn’t quite break your gaze from his though, fixed and thrumming as it was upon you.

 

“So you are the mysterious stranger skulking in my woods?” The King’s voice was low and magnanimous, warm as a late summer’s breeze and tinged with just a hint of the frigid bite of the heart of winter. You didn’t dare reply, and you weren’t even sure that you could if you’d wanted to, what with the way your heart was cloying your chest, hammering in your throat.

 

“I gather that you are unaware of the solitude I’ve commanded of my Kingdom due to the danger of our times,” He continued, tone assured and almost rhetorical, “Otherwise you would not venture to trespass in Mirkwood.”

 

He circled you like a vulture as he spoke, finely made robes swishing imperceptibly on the floor as they trailed bygone behind him, barely clinging to the lofty post that his board shoulders provided. You weren’t quite sure what you had expected from the King of the Elves, but being in his imposing, regal presence had dashed any and all preconceived notions to pieces before your very eyes.

 

He leaned in suddenly, the fresh scents of musky pine leaves and sweet, sultry sap washing over your ragged senses, making you gasp in a shocked breath that only deepened as you felt the King’s lithe, adept fingers whirling unexpectedly around your temple, tracing the mark that his guards’ bow had imprinted upon your tender skin. You didn’t breathe as those digits traced that wicked pattern marring your flesh before following the line of your hair down the side of your head, swirling adeptly to tuck a few smooth strands of hair behind your gently pointed ear, the action both acknowledging his soldiers violence and exposing the undeniable proof of your crimes.

 

“That must have hurt.” He spoke, his tone almost a murmur, his deep, smooth voice spilling hotly over your neck to trip down your spine, making warm, tingly shivers erupt over your skin. Whether he was referring to the bruise kissing your temple or the numerous silver rings looping the multiple piercings in your offending ears you weren’t quite sure, but you didn’t reply regardless. The bite of his heavy rings against your skin was frigid, nearly as cold as the temperate flesh of his fingers, and twice as icy as the pallid gleam behind his pale eyes. His intense gaze boring into you filled you with the strangest urge to squirm, to escape back into the shaded trees that you’d spent the past few months traversing. At least there you were free from the handsome King and his perplexing, inveterate caresses. You weren’t sure whether to bow in gratitude or beg in fear.

 

You weren’t particularly well versed in monarchical etiquette, but you were quite sure that it would be considered rude to slap a King’s hand away, so you settled for a heavy swallow that worked the taught cords of your exposed throat and the darting of your eyes to the backs of his guards that stood stoic and unseeing by the great wooden pillars.

 

When your gaze fell upon the expertly crafted sword swaying by his side you suddenly wondered if he’d grant your obstinate, macabre wish and run that finely forged blade through your chest, right into your hammering heart, and spare you the abiding torture and slow death that your very existence guaranteed you.

 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” You questioned, the impending prospect of your death spurring you to reclaim your voice, though it thrummed with hot, molten anger and was tinged with a healthy dose of pallid fear.

 

“Ah, she speaks!” He drawled, a heart stopping, if not sarcastic smile spanning his handsome features before they settled quickly back into their amused, sardonic equilibrium, “You would rather die than be captured?” The Elvenking’s low, thrumming voice filled the sun dappled throne room easily, true curiosity tinged with just a hint of impression banked in the drawling, purred tones of his inquiry.

 

You took a step towards him, spanning the scant distance between you so that you stood toe to toe with him, and immediately you heard the sound of a dozen swords being drawn simultaneously from their scabbards. He reached out a scopic hand to still his guards where they stood, poised and ready, his eyes never leaving yours as they glittered with entertained curiosity.

 

“Gladly,” You rasped in reply, ignoring the frantic, suspended energy skittering in the room around you, tilting your head up sharply to hold his lofty gaze, a task made increasingly difficult by his towering, gargantuan height. You swallowed hard when he leaned down towards you, his alabaster hair glinting in the sunlight, crystalline eyes sparkling with something that flitted dangerously close to enthrallment. Those full, inviting lips parted as he took you in, seeming to measure the seriousness of your answer, and under his scrutiny you worked to hold your features firm, stoking the fervent fire behind your eyes with thoughts of the subjugation that could potentially befall you.

 

After a few long heartbeats in which his dizzying closeness cloyed your poor, over encumbered senses he straightened back up to his full imposing height, that intense, luminous gaze finally breaking from yours as he turned to stride to a table sitting on the far side of the room that bore a fine crystal decanter and a number of gossamer spun chalices. Once released from the colossal weight of his gaze you slumped visibly, raising a shaking hand to your forehead to swipe at the loose strands falling there. Damn you straight to the fires of Mordor, being in the presence of this huge, virile male _did_ something to you, something that had a fire roaring in your belly and a fluttering heat flaring on your cheekbones. Though whether it was attraction or annoyance, you couldn’t yet say, but you heartily suspected that it skirted the fine line etched somewhere between the two.

 

 “I’m sure you are aware of this Kingdom’s formalities concerning _Peredhil_ such as yourself,” The King said, referencing the Sindarian term for your half elven, half mortal parentage as he poured two hearty glasses of wine, “Under my current rule they are not permitted here. But, given the gravity and desolation of our current time I find myself feeling amicable.” He turned back to you then, a glinting goblet balanced in each expansive hand, thick robes swishing softly as he strode back towards you. You surveyed him with keen, watchful eyes, noting the calculating gleam in his gaze.

 

“It has become apparent that I have need for a traveler such as yourself,” The King continued after taking a sip from his glass, that encompassing gaze no doubt catching the way your eyes fell and lingered on the long, graceful lines of his throat, “You have been to many towns across Middle Earth, yes?”

 

“Indeed I have,” You replied, pausing before adding somewhat sourly, “Your Majesty.” For some reason that lofty title had you frowning, the jagged awkwardness of the fine moniker slipping on your unrefined tongue striking a dissonant note of enigmatic discord in your mind, though the small smirk that the King flashed you in response to your pleasantry did help to soothe some of your internal tumult somewhat.

 

“And have you seen the darkness infringing on the borders of this land? Have you come across the foul creatures that lurk in my woods?”

 

At the mention of those grim, shadowed beasts you felt an uneasy shiver trip down your spine, words of ancient wickedness seeming to whisper aphotic curses at your back and shift maliciously in the slim shadows of the sun filled room. You felt goosebumps erupt on your skin at the thought, and you scowled deeply as you met the Elvenking’s gaze, your disdain of that evil malice momentarily overshadowing the intimidating impression that the King made.

 

“I have, my Lord,” You replied, a husky contempt coloring your voice as you spoke, “They are abhorrent things, brimming with evil intent, and they are spreading.” You hesitated before continuing, sweeping your eyes contemplatively across the Elvenking’s attentive form, momentarily judging if you should divulge possibly sensitive information about yourself in exchange for  the value of your life. After a moment you deemed it necessary and continued, “I would not have ventured so close to your Great Hall if the vermin hadn’t encroached upon me. They have been coming down from the North, though in truth I didn’t expect them to dare to cross into your lands. I have killed many of them; their foul blood runs black like tar.”

 

The King seemed momentarily impressed by your ample knowledge, the surprised expression gracing his handsome features belaying his shock at the depth of your usefulness. You had to work to suppress the pleasant plume of warmth that billowed in your chest in response to that magnanimous visage, though you couldn’t deny that you were suddenly immensely glad that you had taken the liberty of cleaning up your dirt caked skin and loose hair before this encounter, however brief your efforts might have been.

 

“My guards have been driving off these creatures for months now and not a single one of them has been able to ascertain their origin,” The King spoke, gliding closer to you as if he couldn’t quite stop himself, an air of appreciation shimmering in his celadon gaze as it fixed upon you, making your heart flip pitifully in your chest, “And here a slight of form, fiery spirited Halfling has divulged more useful information to me in a matter of minutes than the whole of my scouting force has in months.” As he studied you intently, appearing to try to divine the truth of your intentions from the astonished expression no doubt banked on your slightly confused features, he seemed to decide upon something, to come to a paramount decision regarding your fate. “I offer you a position here at my court; be my advisor, inform me of the things you have seen in your travels, and I will grant you pardon for the crimes of your blood and bane.”

 

You could do nothing but gape open mouthed, utterly shocked down to your very core as the King regarded you, waiting patiently for your response to his acquisition. For a moment you considered the consequences if you refused, grimly picturing the towering Elf shrugging dispassionately at your refusal and unsheathing that majestic sword from its sheathe to promptly separate your head from your slim shoulders. A ripple of disquiet rang through you at the thought, and after dispelling that unpleasant image you squared your chest and met his clear, celadon gaze unflinchingly.

 

The steely intent set there in your eyes must have convinced him of your answer, for before you even spoke he smiled wide and warm, shifting to hold out the untouched diaphanous glass resting in his other hand towards you in offering. “Do you accept, _Peredhil_?”

 

Your eyes lingered on him, sliding down his form with barely concealed appreciation and clear apprehension settled in your gaze before it snapped back up to meet his, the lilting promise of your continued life spurring you to confidence. After a slight hesitation you reached out to slip your fingers around the smooth surface of the chalice, delighting in the sumptuous feel of it, delicate and exquisite, in your palm.

 

“Yes,” You replied softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, “I accept your most generous offer, your Majesty.” The smirk curving those sinful lips widened imperceptibly before he offered his own glass to you in a toast, one which you met with increasing excitement, before sipping the fine wine glinting in your cup. You utterly failed to suppress the low moan that tumbled from your throat at the taste of the liquid hitting your tongue; you didn’t think you’d ever sampled a finer spirit in the whole of your life, and you gulped hard to find the eyes of the King glowing hotly with something lingering suspiciously close to prurience in response to that carnal noise falling from your parted lips.

 

 

“Since that matter is settled,” The King said after a long, plethoric moment in which his intense, heated gaze caused a very different kind of warmth to bloom low and thrumming in your belly, “You must see our healers; you have an injury that needs tending to. They can see to your wound and provide you with fresh vestments.” He proclaimed, gesturing with his ring bedecked fingers to the blood stained patch of canvas marring your damaged shoulder. You’d all but forgotten about the wound in the vibrant tense swelter of the encounter, but once reminded the gash began to throb painfully, robbing your attention fully and completely. You grimaced under the weight of remembered anguish.

 

“My son’s aim is true.” The King said after assessing your frowning, pain filled features, his voice intoned with something that could almost be interpreted as sympathy, “The wound will scar.”

 

“So be it,” You replied boldly, your teeth slightly gritted at the pain, your head held high as you met the King’s searing celadon gaze, “It won’t be the first nor, I imagine, the last.” The corners of the King’s smirking lips upturned at that, as if he admired your spirit, and that strange, daunting prospect sent pleasant chills skittering frantically down your spine.

 

“Then perhaps we shall compare scars someday, Halfling.” You peered up at him through your lashes, the strangely endearing nick name making you study the almost warm glint in his icy gaze, the upturned cut of his immaculate cheekbones, the smooth curve of his sensual mouth in a new, hopeful light. If you’d been a weaker female you imagined that you might have swooned at the becoming sight.

 

_“Perhaps…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers!
> 
> Here is the second chapter, longer as promised! I had SO much fun writing our snarky Elven King, I hope you had just as much fun reading about him :) Please let me know any thoughts, comments or concerns you have about this chapter, and if you're loving it please let me know! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> P.S. Here's a mood board for this chapter!  
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/159420912539/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-2-ash-and


	3. Shadows and Starlight

_Bliss…_

 

You were basking in utter and complete _bliss_ , relishing in the pure euphoric unknotting of your tense muscles and the gentle sighs of your slowing breaths. Your damp, clean hair lay piled atop your head, supple, shining strands drying briskly in the candle lit suite that you were currently inhabiting, warm, gently sloshing water lapping at your glistening skin as you settled deeper into the balmy soak you were indulging in. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d found yourself in such a pleasant bath, let alone been relaxed enough to actually close your eyes while washing. Your efforts of ablution were usually limited to hasty, watchful, vigorous scrubs snatched in the early hours of morning, and were always executed with your trusted daggers laying within arm’s reach and your eyes securely fixed upon the horizon for any signs of interrupting, ill-wishing strangers. You’d heard tales of women taken by force at their most vulnerable, like say naked as the day you were born under a gentle waterfall, and you’d be damned if you’d let yourself become one of those bitter, doleful tales.

 

But such things were far away now, seeming negligible and paltry in the soft, golden light of the Woodland Realm. You could really become accustomed to such pleasantries, from the rustic, homey feel of this stronghold, with its dappled sunlit rooms and wide cavernous spaces, to the simple pleasures that it provided, like warm, steaming baths and new, beautiful clothes. The latter, the fresh vestments, you had yet to receive, but you held no doubt in your mind that they would be just as stunning as the rest of this Kingdom was proving to be.

 

You were grateful that you hadn’t been sent any attending servants, not that you would have accepted them anyway. You weren’t nearly high born enough to warrant a servant, and even if you were you could never accept their vassalage; you loved your own freedom too much, how could you even think to take it from another? The fact that you had been slightly embarrassed by the travel weathered state of your pre-bath body and threadbare clothing also added a healthy measure of relief to your solitude.

 

Suddenly a curt rapping sounded from behind the massive door to your expansive chamber, splintering your euphoric reverie, making you start slightly, your brow furrowing as you wondered who that could possibly be. If you had been anywhere else, and your weapons hadn’t been seized so abruptly from you, you’d already be standing hidden beside the door, shamelessly dripping water on the expertly crafted carpet, a dagger poised in each hand, ready to strike whoever was foolish enough to think to invade your space. But such as you were, relaxed and pliant and blissfully clean, you barely stirred, moving only to turn and assess the innocently glinting door handle.

 

A few moments after you bid whoever was waiting behind the aperture to enter, the heavy wooden door creaked open and in stepped a young russet haired elf maiden with a kind face and a quick smile, her slim arms heavily laden with splendid bundles of cloth which she hastily set on the smooth quilts gracing the gargantuan bed. You grinned back at her, grateful for her show of amiability, and watched as she bowed gracefully, her tawny head curving with the telltale elegance that all full blooded elves possessed.

 

“Good evening, my Lady. I have been instructed by the King to deliver these fresh garments to you. If they aren’t to your liking I can happily fetch more, we have no shortage of habiliments here.” You shifted in your bath as she spoke, the warm water sloshing softly around your form as you moved to face the servant more fully, intent on communicating to her the exorbitance of her formality towards you.

 

“Thank you most kindly,” You replied, smiling warmly at her as you spoke, “I can’t very well go walking around the kingdom stark naked, can I?” At that the maiden blushed, a slight, pretty pink that spread nearly to the tips of her sharply pointed ears as she stifled her high pitched, pleasant giggles behind a lithe, pale hand. “What is your name?” You questioned, glad for the cordial mirth beginning to crackle in the air.

 

The young elf looked momentarily shocked at your question, surprise coloring her comely features before she dutifully re arranged her expression, though the growing warmth in her eyes didn’t diminish, “Iôlhel, my Lady.” She replied before bowing low once more, as if that arching curtsy would re-secure the society abyss that she imagined spanned the scant distance between the two of you.

 

“That is a beautiful name,” You remarked after telling her your own moniker, beckoning her forward with a wave of your hand, “And please, don’t feel like you must bow and curtsy around me. I am not of noble blood; it is by pure luck and circumstance that I am not standing where you are right now.” She looked unsure of how to proceed, and as she shuffled forwards you got the impression that this Kingdom, for all its grandeur, was no stranger to pompous nobles and fustian high elves. “Please, come sit with me.” You said, gesturing to the ornate cushioned chair resting by the wide, elegant tub.

 

“My Lady, it is not customary for servants to fraternize with their charges-” She trailed off, the eager, wistful tinge coloring her expression belying her longing for companionship; it was a feeling you could deeply relate to.

 

“Will you get punished for it?” You questioned, tilting your head as you spoke, resting your chin on the forearm you had braced on the edge of the tub.

 

Iôlhel smiled gently, tucking a sleek strand of her silky hair behind one pointed ear as she replied, “No, my Lady. I have been instructed to perform whatever tasks you may require of me.”

 

“Well then, would you like to sit and talk with me, Iôlhel?” You asked, grinning as she seemed to perk up at the question, no doubt thrilled by the luxury of choice you were affording her.

 

“I believe I would, yes.” She replied softly, a tender smile curving her lips as she shuffled forwards, perching scrupulously on the pale green satin, her hands coming to rest reticently on the smooth, light blue folds of her dress.

 

“So tell me truthfully,” You said, reaching for the decanter of crimson wine glinting on the curricle that stood by the tub and pouring two hearty glasses, one of which you raised to your new friend, “How do you like living in this Kingdom?”

 

Iôlhel hesitated, her bronze eyes glinting with want as they flitted from the gossamer glass to your gaze, and back again, as if weighing the consequences if she took the offered drink or even so much as spoke.

 

“You can speak freely with me, of that I promise. I have no ties here, no loyalties owed, no spies scampering about.” You said gently, offering her a kind smile and wagging the glass playfully in her direction, prompting her to shift guiltily in her seat and finally accept the chalice, her slim, brumal fingers curling around the goblet with a healthy measure of hesitation.

 

 “The Woodland Realm is a pleasant enough place, my Lady,” Iôlhel said, twirling the glass resting in her small palm as she spoke, her gaze fixed steadfastly at her lap, “The work is not altogether demanding and the pay is generous. Oh, and the forests are lovely,” the maiden hesitated then, canting her head to the side as she revised her statement, “Well, I say from what I have seen of them, at least. I was in the service of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn before this assignment, you see. Lothlórien is undeniably beautiful, but Mirkwood possesses a certain charm that the forest of Lórien lacks. An approachability of sorts. There were times when Lothlórien felt distant, almost untouchable. In Mirkwood it is not so.” Iôlhel paused then, looking up as if embarrassed that she had said so much. You reassured her with your reply.

 

“I understand completely,” You twirled a finger absently in the foaming water lapping at your calves as you spoke, “Before I was brought here I was hiding out in the forests surrounding Mirkwood.” You heard Iôlhel’s surprised gasp and glanced up to find her clutching her glass tight, her eyes wide with interest, and you took that as a cue to continue, “It was glorious, Iôlhel; waking up to the fresh, clean air, reveling in the warmth of the sun that fell through the trees, meeting all manner of woodland creatures. I spied a white stag once,” Iôlhel gasped anew, no doubt grasping the weight of that sacred omen and aptly revering it as a talisman of sorts, “Its coat was as fair as freshly fallen snow, and those glorious antlers sat proudly aloft on its majestic head. It was beautiful.”

 

“I’d love to see that,” Iôlhel sighed dreamily, her shoulders slanting hopefully, a spellbound glint playing in her sunlit honey eyes, “If ever I’m not a servant I’d very much like to explore these realms, see these beautiful things, _experience_ life instead of reading about it in dusty tomes and gleaning details from the mouths of haughty nobles.” The maiden started then, as if she thought she’d overstepped her bounds as a servant, not that you cared one bit.

 

“I have spoken too long and too earnestly, I apologize my Lady.” She said frantically before casting her gaze downward in subjugation. You prompted her to meet your gaze with a hand placed gently over hers.

 

“Don’t be penitent, Iôlhel, I take no offense from your delightfully forthright words,” You said softly, trying to get her to meet your gaze, “I asked you to speak candidly and so you did. I believe our hearts to be of the same ilk, you and I. I think we are both prisoners, Iôlhel. It just so happens that my cage is more gilded than yours.” You raised the fine glass balancing on your fingers in offering to her, and were subsequently pleased when she smiled softly and met your crystal with hers, a soft _clink_ emanating from where the varnish kissed. She took a measured sip from her glass just as you did the same. The contented, blissful look that crossed her countenance as she did so had you smiling, lowering the cup from your lips.

 

“I know, it’s good isn’t it? The first time I tried some of this Mirkwood wine I moaned like a steer right in front of the King himself! Can you believe that?” Iôlhel snorted a rather unelflike laugh at that, but the action only endeared her to you more. You shared a moment of chuckled humor before the maiden’s chestnut eyes went wide and she slipped off the chair in a sudden flurry of movement.

 

“Oh my Lady, I nearly forgot! The Elvenking has summoned you to his throne room; he has asked for your presence as soon as possible. I will most certainly be chastised if his whims aren’t met.” She set the goblet down on the table from which you’d plucked it, fetching a fresh towel from a peg by the washbasin and holding it out for you to step into, “Please allow me to help you dress, these clothes are quite fine but regrettably complex.”

 

You thanked her as you stepped out, so indifferent to your nakedness before a fellow female that you entirely missed the way her eyes widened at the tattoo twisting around your shoulder blade, and hastened your steps, not wanting to cause the poor maid any more trouble than you likely already had. As you toweled your skin and let down your nearly dry hair Iôlhel spread out the robes that had been sent for you to wear, the pure finery of their make causing you to gasp in a shocked breath. They were undeniably gorgeous; a long gown of dark crimson silk with straps as thin as the strands of a spiders  web were to hug your shoulders, and over that a fine mantle of some soft, plush material that you couldn’t name, it’s fabric embroidered with what looked like late autumn leaves. Molded leather sandals were set out for your feet, their straps pliant and their soles soft. You were suddenly very thankful that you’d had a bath.

 

“These are for me?” You asked softly, incredulous as you ran a shaking hand over the supple material of the deep maroon gown. You momentarily wondered if the King had picked out the clothes himself, carefully considering how these colors and fabrics would look gracing your slight form, before you shook your head hard to dispel the ridiculous notions.

 

“Indeed they are, my Lady.” Iôlhel replied, a healthy measure of shared, uninhibited mirth dancing in her tone as she spoke.

 

Moments later as the sultry silk slipped over your skin, sliding easily down your freshly cleaned form, you were _still_ incredulous, newly floored by the finery surrounding you as you allowed Iôlhel to work her magic and settle you appropriately into the garments. As the elf maiden started arranging your hair into a style that she deemed fit you spoke, refusing to so much as glance in the mirror glinting on the far wall out of something that was both parts your obdurate spirit and your suffocating fear that you’d look ridiculous.

 

“May I ask you one more question?”

 

“Of course, my Lady.” Iôlhel replied, her tone somewhat distant as she focused steadfastly on her task.

 

“What is the King’s disposition? Is he joyful? Tyrannical? Something else altogether?” You asked softly, your voice low, as if you were revealing a staunch secret and he’d somehow overhear you from leagues away. Iôlhel stilled then, her small hands ceasing their soothing movements in your hair, making you momentarily fear you’d banished her into silence, but after a few long heartbeats she spoke in reply.

 

“Truly he is a fair and good King,” She said, veracity ringing clear in her words, though they were tinged with something cloying, like the icy frost that falls on the crisp autumns leaves during the first night of winter, “But he has become saddened, cold, without mirth, his smirks empty and his joys stemming only from his relentless pursuit of the lost heirlooms of his wife.” At the mention of a spouse you felt a strange pit grow deep in your belly, a cold, hard thing that solidified dreadfully in your gut, though you were slightly shamed to say that it lessened at the elf maiden’s next words, “She died many, many moons ago, though he still mourns her.” Iôlhel’s voice lowered then, her words gusting hushed and quick at your ear, “She has yet to return from the Halls of Mandos, and there are whispers that she will never do so, though it is known that His Majesty fervently hopes she will one day. I myself have spied him gazing forlorn at the place where she used to stand beside him when he thinks that no one is present. For all his might and strength, he has a weakness.” You didn’t reply as you turned over this new information in your head, digesting, calculating. The King was a widower then, a strange thing for a full blooded elf. That meant he was vulnerable, not only from attack, though Mirkwood had relentlessly proved itself more than capable of defense, but from a seduction of the spirit.

 

You were glad for the distraction as Iôlhel’s skillful hands shaped your supple strands into a crown of small braids that wrapped around the back of your head, securing the plaits with delicate silver combs shaped into branches. You found a strange kind of peace then, as the elf maidens lithe fingers played in your hair and your body sat wrapped in the finest materials Mirkwood had to offer. You wondered briefly if this was a dream, but Iôlhel’s pleasant voice brought you firmly into the present.

 

“There,” the maiden said, teeth worrying her narrow bottom lip as she peered at her handiwork with an appraising eye, “Yes, I think that’s quite nice.” When you grunted and made a comment about feeling like a prized milk cow up for auction Iôlhel’s kind smile graced her comely features once more, the expression tinged with something like understanding that helped to steel your spine and calm your jangled nerves.

 

“Alright,” You sighed, bracing your palms on your thighs as you rose from the settee you’d been seated on and spun in an exaggerated twirl for your new friend, grinning as she clapped her hands in joy and exclaimed her praises. “I guess there’s no more reason to stall.” You groaned as you rocked on your heels where you stood, brushing your palms nervously over your new garments.

 

“I’m afraid not, my Lady.” Iôlhel said, compassion banked in her kind face. “I can lead you to the throne room, but from there I must depart.” At the worried tinge that had begun to seep into your expression she hastily added, “But I shall return tomorrow!”

 

Grateful for the new ally you’d made, and more than a little nervous to see the King again, you had just begun to make for the door when the heavy wood swung open seemingly of its own accord, the cause of its movements revealed moments later as the Elvenking himself strode into the room, all towering, solid muscle and appraising celadon eyes that were somehow even more aphotic than you’d remembered.

 

“My Lord,” Iôlhel chanted fervently at the monarch’s unexpected presence, the syllables falling tedious and rehearsed from her mouth, her curtsy deep and respectful. You weren’t quite sure what to do in greeting, so you simply bowed your head in a begrudging show of respect and met his gaze unflinchingly.

 

“I have been long awaiting your arrival, _Peredhel_ ,” The King spoke, those alluring eyes intent on you, “I am patient, but even my equanimeous endurance has its limits.” As he spoke he turned his gaze to Iôlhel, and appeared as if he was about to chastise her, making you immediately step towards him, your body angling between the Elvenking and your new friend.

 

“If you are looking to place blame, Your Majesty, lay it with me. I kept Iôlhel with foolish talk of girlish things,” You embellished, your hands raised in appeal, your gaze pleading but firm, “It has indeed been far too long since I’ve had any proper female companionship. She is an outstanding member of your Kingdom, if there is any blame to be had it is my due share.”

 

The King leaned back slightly at that, seeming to regard you with an assessing gleam in his eye, as if gauging the truth of your words. The wide glimmer of your eyes and the exaggerated guilt set in the bow of your shoulders must have persuaded him, for after a moment he nodded, dismissing Iôlhel with a slight wave of his hand, though she flashed you a look that said she wanted to know the details of your conversation on the morrow, to which you flashed a look in reply that conveyed your wholehearted intentions to give her a full report, before she slipped out the door with the soft rustle of skirts and a volley of gentle, pattering footsteps.

 

“I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting, Your Majesty,” You said softly, raising a hand to swipe at the back of your neck, that amplified guilt you’d played up to keep Iôlhel out of trouble melting quickly into real, vibrant remorse as the long moments ticked by, “It seems I got caught up in a bath.”

 

It didn’t help that the King was striding about the room, his long unadorned hair swaying gently down his back, a pale river of glinting strands that beckoned tantalizingly, as if inviting you to run your fingers through it, his dark blue tunic accentuating the tall, broad lines of his shoulders and cut of his biceps, hugging his lean, strong figure perfectly, belaying the elegant lines of his form.

 

You swore that this male got more indomitably attractive every single time you saw him.

 

“As I said,” he replied, the heat that had flared tellingly in his gaze at the mention of a bath, and the implied wet, sliding nakedness of you in it, had caused to erupt behind his visage lessening somewhat as he paused by the abandoned curricle that still held the remnants of your shared drink with Iôlhel to pour himself a hearty glass, extending your untouched chalice towards you. You stepped forward to claim it from his grasp, your slim fingers just barely brushing his as the cup slipped into your palm, spurring wicked tingles to skitter across your flesh as he continued, “I am a patient male. However, the matters that I wish to discuss with you cannot wait.”

 

He moved to a set of chairs perched by the roaring fire, one that Iôlhel had no doubt meticulously stoked before your arrival to your chambers, and glanced at you, obviously waiting for you to join him. Stubborn as you were, you assented to his silent challenge and joined him before the flames, sipping your wine both to keep your hands busy and to soothe your raging nerves.

 

“I am told that your skills with a blade are formidable, is this true?” The King asked, those piercing eyes settling on you once more as he awaited your answer, making you hastily attempt to pretend that you hadn’t just been mesmerized by the way his broad thumb had been stroking measuredly over the smooth surface of the chalice balanced in his massive hand.

 

“That depends on who you ask. According to those foul Spawn of Ungoliant I am no doubt the scourge of their race, but ask that militant commander of yours and he will most likely tell you that I was an easy capture.”

 

“I have asked him,” Thranduil replied after taking a hearty drag from his glass, eyes fixed unseeing on the fire, oblivious to the slackening of your jaw in response to his surprising words, “He had only excuses to provide me as to why he felt the need to use excessive force on a female, even one that was trespassing.”

 

“I was not defenseless,” You provided, unsure of why exactly you were defending the Elf that had bruised your sensitive flesh, somehow spurred by the King’s unlikely sympathy for you.

 

“But you were running from those evil creatures that my guards have so utterly failed to exterminate. In some way, I feel as though this makes you my charge.” The King’s gaze wheeled to you once more, that aggravating, alluring smirk tugging at his lips once more, “Would you rather see him go unadmonished?” Crooked Nose walking free while you sported the evidence of his flagrant misuse of weaponry and domineering tactics? Oh no, you would abide no such thing.

 

“I’d rather see him dismissed from the force and resigned to chamber pot duties until he can learn not to strike innocent bystanders.” Alright, perhaps your anger was slightly inflated, but it was certainly not misplaced. Your temple still smarted when you turned your head just the right way, and your ego was in no better shape than when you’d received that damaging kiss from his bow, dismissal seemed appropriate in your mind, though there was no way that the Elvenking would ever-

 

“It will be done.”

 

And just like that your wishes were made real, whims wrought into tangible form thanks to this powerful monolith of a male. You glanced incredulous at the King, unable to mask your surprise and unfettered gratitude for the strange kindness of his actions. Before you could analyze that decree any further the King was speaking again, his deep pleasant voice sending tingles whispering across your skin.

 

“That is not the business I came to discuss, however. If your skills with a blade are as formidable as they are made out to be I want you as a leader in my guard. You are to start archery training with my captain Tauriel on the morrow; she can also inform you of the duties expected of a captain. Between those tasks and any advising wisdom you may divulge, I will consider your crimes pardoned.”

 

The King paused then, sighing deeply as he raised one elegant, pale hand to his brow, his countenance suddenly immensely weary, an incalculable weight seated heavy on his shoulders. “There is a darkness encroaching on the Greenwood, a sleepless malice that slithers through its bright boughs and strong arbors. You have felt it, I am sure.”

 

“Indeed I have,” You replied, your voice quiet, careful, as if the wrong word would shatter the fragile magic that his candor had spelled over you, “It saddens me to see such a beautiful forest plagued by these dark things. But all hope is not lost,  Majesty, for in the heart of the forest not even a fortnight ago I spied a white stag lingering in the wood,” You said, a sudden spear of molten heat catching low in your belly when the King’s keen, icy gaze flew to meet yours, real, stark interest bank in his eyes.

 

“Truly, you did?” The King questioned, bracing a wide hand on the arm of your chair, leaning in as if attempting to intimidate any lies from your lips. The unnerving clarity of his pale gaze and the strange, luring warmth of his body in combination with the heady wine still lingering on your lips had your head spinning, your thoughts coming slow and thick like honey as you were quickly and utterly spellbound by the Elvenking.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” You said, confidence, and a measure of lively spirit seeping into your voice as you spoke, “He was magnificent, with his pure white coat and his velvety antlers. The forest may be sick, but it is not forsaken.”

 

The Elvenking was gazing at you intently, as if you were the last sip of water in a vast arid desert, as if you were a morsel of Lembas bread mercifully offered to a starving man. You found yourself flushing under the intensity in his gaze, your heart twisting pitifully in your chest at the pure, overwhelming beauty of his features and the deep running care he obviously fostered for his Kingdom.

 

“I very much needed to hear that this night, _Peredhel_ ,” The King said, his voice soft but intense, thrumming with a regal gratitude that promised of rich reward. There was a moment that you met his gaze, a moment in which a low, molten heat passed between you, a thrumming, vibrant thing that had the breath stilling in your throat and your eyes unable to part from his. And yet, lilting over top of that deep purring fervor was a thin cord of something that felt very much like affection, like companionship, and you got the sudden sense that not very many individuals spoke candidly with the King, though they may need to.

 

And then he was rising, lithe, long body unfolding to its full imposing height, effectively breaking that fragile spell that had settled over you, and in order to hold his gaze you rose as well, though standing this close to him your head barely brushed the middle of his chest. Damn it all, he was just so _tall_.

 

“I will leave you to your rest, you shall have a busy day on the morrow,” The King said, turning as he reached the wide, heavy door to your chambers, pausing to regard you with almost kind eyes, “I thank you deeply for the counsel you have given me. I think your welcome words may afford me my first good night’s slumber in as long as I can remember.”

 

And then he was gone, slipping away in a swirl of shining, pale blonde hair, dark majestic robes and flashing, celadon eyes that belayed a world of tempting thoughts and feelings that you weren’t privy to. Without his magnanimous presence the room felt colder somehow, staler, and in response you pulled the fine mantle tighter about your shoulders.

 

As you turned to climb into the massive plush bed you finally, reluctantly caught sight of yourself in the mirror balanced on the far wall. You could see traces of yourself in the female that stood there, in the hollows of her cheekbones, the sparkle in her eyes and the slanting curve of her waist perhaps, but this woman, this seemingly highborn figure, was almost wholly, starkly novel to you. You realized suddenly that your old, harsh, vagabond self was leaving, flashing into oblivion like shadows in starlight, changing, molding into something more refined, more steady, something that Kings’ smiled at and  sought out for counsel. Something _valuable._

 

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the look of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! So there we have chapter 3! If you're paying really close attention you'll notice that I sprinkled in some things that will come into play in later chapters, so keep your eyes peeled! I sincerely hope that you enjoyed, please let me know any comments, questions or kind words that you have regarding this chapter, I love your feedback! You readers are amazing, thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> Mood Board for this Chapter!  
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/159567965884/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-3-shadows-and


	4. Anguish and Ardor

 “Tell me again.” The Elvenking’s commanding voice rang low and lilting through the empty throne room, his normally stoic tone tinged with just a hint of uncharacteristic anticipation and a more than healthy dose of regal decree, enough that the servant cowering before him didn’t dare object her Liege’s order.

 

 

Still, Iôlhel couldn’t quite suppress her heavy inward sigh, careful as she was not to let the truth of her emotions show on her face, though genuinely she was heartily weary of this incessant repetition. Not that she’d let on anything of the ilk; she was much too respectful and afraid of her King to disobey. She shifted nervously where she stood at those dangerously mutinous thoughts, however fleeting they’d been, and tightened the hands she had clasped behind her back, her fingers toying nervously with the tie of the apron affixed about her waist, before she glanced bashfully at the foot of her King’s throne and then back to her scuffed boots once more. Something about the Elvenking had always made her skittish, had her nerves pulling taught, caused her voice to fail her at the most inopportune of times.

 

“She is quite unique among your guests, My Lord,” Iôlhel said after a lengthy heartbeat, her words notably softer than the Kings, though just as sure somehow; perhaps it was the subject, _you_ , that helped to steel the bend of her spine and straighten the quaver of her voice, “She rarely ever asks for anything, and if she does request a service she makes it clear that I can refuse or object. She treats me with great kindness and fairness.” Iôlhel had almost said  _like equals_ , but she heartily suspected that was a prospect just of this King’s reach, a concept that he wouldn’t quite understand or abide, so astutely she held her tongue.

 

 

“What does she say of her status? Of her tasks here in the Kingdom?” The monarch asked, the stark interest sparking brightly behind his glittering eyes belaying the forced casualness of his stance, splayed as it was on the magnanimous seat of his throne. Iôlhel had been around enough nobles to know when they were trying to keep up appearances, to don the stony, diplomatic faces of their forebears, and now she could sense that very same concentrated aloofness in her Liege. Funnily enough, before your appearance in this court as one of her charges she had never really noticed that trait in the King. Now it was all she could see.

 

 

Iôlhel had to smile at the Kings latest inquiry, thinking fondly of how just last night you’d complained passionately about the captain, Tauriel she thought her name was, and her fierce training regimen as you’d peeled off the worn boots from your screaming feet, growling something to the effect of  _damn it all to the fires of Mordor_ , but for now Iôlhel thought she’d keep that particular amusing instance to herself.

 

 

“She is grateful for the rare opportunity that you have given her to prove herself in your court,” Iôlhel supplied, mentally patting herself on the back for such a diplomatic response; perhaps she was picking up a thing or two here in the courts of Mirkwood, “She is enthusiastic and eager to perform her tasks. However…” Iôlhel said before trailing off, wondering fervently if she should divulge a simple, but revealing, fact about her new Mistress.

 

 

“What?” The King commanded, leaning forward in his lofty seat as his resonant voice thrummed through the echoing chamber, looming over her as his celadon eyes flashed brightly, “Speak, child.”

 

 

Iôlhel gulped heavily before she replied, reasoning that she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter now anyway. Your words from the previous night flitted through her mind then, making fondness for you grow deep in her breast,  _I think we are both prisoners, Iôlhel. It just so happens that my cage is more gilded than yours…._

 

How right her Mistress was.

 

 

“She longs for a taste of freedom, My Lord. She speaks fondly of the forests just outside the Kingdom’s walls. I think she yearns to see them.” Iôlhel paused then, glancing down at her boots, scuffed and worn by time and trade, weighted by the invisible fetters of her post, “It is a longing that I can understand.”

 

The King didn’t speak for long moments in which Iôlhel’s heart hammered fervently in her throat, pulse cloying her huffed breaths and sparking deep rooted panic to bubble in her chest. Had she misspoken? Had she angered her King? She’d heard the rumors of his wrath; though he was slow to it, once provoked he could easily strike down enemy or offender, friend or foe, without so much as batting a starlit eyelash. Iôlhel shivered from something very far from cold then, hoping fervently that she’d leave this audience in one piece.

 

When the King finally spoke it was with unexpectedly compassionate words that lacked their usual sardonic bite, “I suppose you would,  _bŷrath_.” Iôlhel didn’t dare to look up, even as a blush spread hotly on her cheekbones, her heart fluttering down to its rightful place in her breast at the King’s unexpected softness. “And what-” The King paused his statement abruptly, making Iôlhel glance up hastily to ensure that all was well with him. She supposed the King looked almost  _nervous_ then,as if he was holding his breath, “What does she say of me?”

 

 

It was only due to her many years of dutiful service as a maid and loyal servant that Iôlhel managed to blink back her momentous surprise. To her budding amusement and incredulity she realized that the King _was_ indeed holding his breath, fervently awaiting her answer. Recognizing an opportunity to grant her Mistress additional favor in this court, something that you alone deserved, she canted her head respectfully and replied.

 

 

“She speaks well of you, Your Majesty. She has inquired to me about your nature and disposition, and has seemed pleased with what she has discovered thus far.” The King sat forward on his carven throne as Iôlhel spoke, fully unmasked interest glittering clear and unveiled in his eyes. Iôlhel had to bite back a smile at the fervor with which he hung to her every word; it would seem that the King cared for her Mistress much more than his stoic, stony temperament let on, of that she was sure.

 

 

“And what did you tell her?” The King asked, voice sharp and edged with a dangerous warning of what would befall her if her answer was not to his liking. Squaring her shoulders, feeling steadied by the thought of you as her ally, she answered.

 

 

“I spoke truthfully,” Iôlhel said, raising her gaze to meet her Kings and barely suppressing the shiver that skittered down her spine in response to the intensity banked in his eyes, “I told her that you are fair and just, that your Kingdom is prosperous and your lands vast. I told her that you are a great King.” Iôlhel diplomatically chose to leave out the part about mentioning the King’s wife to you, seeing as she quite liked her head where it sat on her shoulders and didn’t intend to see it parted from her body any time soon due to a few careless words. Judging by the obvious approval glittering in the King’s eyes, she’d made the right call.

 

 

One of his pale, lithe hands rose from the arm of his chair to cup his chin, his long fingers stroking almost imperceptibly at the sharp cut of his cheekbones before he canted his head in a gesture brimming with regal intent.

 

 

“I thank you for your insight,  _bŷrath,”_ The King said, assurance firmly rooted in his tone once more, as if her words had steeled a yawning  tremor in him that he had been  steadfastly suppressing, a deep sense of unease that she’d managed to quell with her half-truths. “You are dismissed; go see to your duties.”

 

 

With a curt but sincere bow, Iôlhel all but ran from the overbearing, cloying presence of her King, deeply grateful when she could gulp in lungful’s of the sweet, fresh air that filtered through the cavernous hallway just outside the King’s throne room. Swiping a hand about her brow, Iôlhel couldn’t help but smile as she thought of the aid she’d provided her Mistress this day. You had proven to be an unexpected, but immensely welcome, companion to break up the dull monotony of Iôlhel’s  life, the very least she could do was put in a good word for you with their unruly, tempestuous King.

 

 

The very King whose eyes seemed to glint with curiosity and interest when you were the subject of conversation, sympathy and even a hint of _mirth_ dancing in his cold gaze for the first time in many, many years. Iôlhel had seen very few miracles in her day, but that she was glad to count among them.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thranduil, King of Greenwood the Great, Ruler of the Woodland Ream and Son of Oropher, late King of the Silvan Elves, didn’t consider himself a particularly obsessive male, but by all the Valar and the Secret Fire that burned bright in his  _fëa_ itself, he just  _couldn’t_  stop wondering about you.

 

 

Those incessant thoughts whispered bewitching murmurings in his keen pointed ears, pricked hotly, tantalizingly beneath his smooth, pale skin, burrowed and bit deep in his broad chest, until he found himself utterly and completely _consumed_  with ponderings about you. Ever so slowly, as time wore on and you occupied a steadfast place in his court, like the late spring fog that lifted to reveal sweet summer grass beneath it, his ever present, abiding suspicion of you was beginning to ebb, replaced instead with a bright, burning curiosity that he just couldn’t seem to quell.

 

 

Even now as he sat in his next audience, a meeting consisting of one immensely dull merchant propositioning the King for permission to move his wares through Mirkwood’s borders, a proposal he’d undoubtedly reject after the proper amount of time had lapsed in the creatures monotonous speech, his mind was fixated on you. There was something utterly enchanting about the comely upturn of your lips when you smiled, something completely spellbinding hidden in the glinting depths of your aphotic eyes, so Elven for a Halfling of your kind, in the strangely appealing mortal lilt of your words, brimming with unexpected wisdom, in the lovely moon lit glow of your dewy skin, always peeking out from the folds of your robes, teasing him from beneath the cuff of your sleeve or the upturn of your collar. He found himself wanting to run his fingers through the waving hair that fell, heavy and shining, down your back; a ridiculous idea, and yet he’d insisted to your maid that she encourage you to wear it down in the custom of his people, just so that he could spy it catch the glowing light streaming from the high slits in the cavern walls or from the many hanging lights adorning the earthen ceiling of his Kingdom.

 

 

He sighed deeply then, letting the normally habitual, kingly veneer slip momentarily from his lofty countenance to reveal the true depth of his disinterest in the meager trader before him. Thankfully the merchant was busily engaged in a sweeping bow, one of twenty that he’d counted so far, surely that had to establish some grovel standard of sorts, so the creature missed his look of utter boredom, contempt even, but Thranduil quickly collected himself nonetheless. It was becoming harder and harder to focus on his duties, on the day to day tasks that he had to perform as King of the Woodland Realm. Not that it would show to any of his subjects, they’d still see the calm, collected Ruler that had sat upon this throne for thousands of years, stoic and unchanging, but he knew the truth of his dismounted focus. Uncaring of the consequences, suddenly bored to his very core of _duties_ ,  he let his mind wander to the words of your maidservant then, to the thrumming, hidden truths that they belayed, marveling as they caught and held his interest like the glint of a starlit gem.

_She longs for a taste of freedom… She speaks fondly of the forests just outside the Kingdom’s walls. I think she yearns to see them…._

 

That novel information made Thranduil pause, forced him to question whether you were a prisoner or a charge of his mighty Kingdom, under his watchful eye, and in truth he did not know. His sensible, logic driven mind was telling him that you were more captive than free, that that was the wise answer, but his heart, that stiff, cold thing that still beat bravely in his chest, was whispering to him the opposite, a feat in itself, for that appendage had sat long dormant within his breast, barely stirring even at thoughts of his own son.

 

 

And yet, incredibly, it stirred for you.

 

 

Your servants words were flitting about his mind, flapping like the turn of a ravens wing, calling perpetually, unignorable, through his thoughts. He’d known another once who could be described as  _kind_ ; an Elven woman with hair like spun silver bathed in moonlight and eyes that danced with all the mirth of a cloudless, starry night, a woman who’d stolen his heart with the turn of her slim heel.

 

_No_ , he commanded himself, his own monarchical regency faltering,  _don’t think of her. Not now. Not ever._

 

His patience met its abrupt and fierce end just then, at the thought of _her,_ and Thranduil suddenly rapped his staff, inclining his head subtly toward the head of his guard to signal that the Elf should cease this merchants seemingly eternal bleating’s.

 

 

“I thank you most kindly for your appeals this day, but I fear I have to refuse your noble request.” Thranduil said, truly trying, but again failing, to imbue his tone with even a modicum of interest; after a heartbeat he gave up completely, “My guards will show you out, I wish you the best of luck in your trade.” Perhaps if the merchant pedaled in wine instead of farming tools Thranduil would have reconsidered, but as it was he was satisfied with his decree.

 

 

Now that he was free of the days’ share of hearings, a sudden, mirthful, even  _reckless_ idea sparked sinfully in Thranduil’s mind, and he hastily gestured for his head guard to approach once he’d returned from showing the despondent merchant from the Kings throne room. As Thranduil began to speak his orders he searched the guards face for any trace of disapproval or dissent but he was pleased when he found none. If the Silvan Elf had any animosity towards his King’s command, he didn’t show it.

 

 

And that’s how, about an hour later, Thranduil found himself skulking through the woods like a common Silvan elf, his long, fine brocade robes hastily traded for sturdy leggings and a light tunic of silk and velvet in the name of stealth, knee length boots crunching soundlessly on the forest floor as he followed hot on your trail. By his magnanimous decree, and your satisfactory performance in your recent trainings, you had been allowed to walk through the woods surrounding the perimeter of Thranduil’s fortress, under the watchful, distant eye of a number of his most trusted guards, of course.

 

 

You didn’t seem too perturbed by their presence though, judging by the elated, even  _blissful_  expression coloring your winsome features. The pure euphoria banked in your eyes, curving the lines of your lips and coloring your cheeks, had a foreign, pleasant tingle flooding the Elvenking limbs, making a strange, long forgotten heat flare ominously in his chest, and though he fervently tried to push those telling sensations away, he couldn’t deny that he was slightly pleased that he failed to abate them completely.

 

 

Thranduil watched intently as you reached a tiny clearing that stood a mere stone’s throw from the imposing walls of his fortress and stepped eagerly inside, your shoes long removed and swinging happily from your lithe fingers, your deep sigh of relief clearly audible as your toes spread through the thick, springtime grass blanketing the small meadow. He felt a bit invasive just then, as if he was encroaching on an intimate moment that belonged to you and you alone, as if he were the trespasser and you the infringed, but he fervently shook off those sensations in favor of that steadfast numbness he so often fell back into. This time however, it seemed to fall just short of successful, not allowing him to turn away, instead making his gaze lock on your small form.

 

 

Thranduil stilled utterly when you began to undress, stripping off the clothes he’d generously provided for you, your movements more anticipatory than seductive, tinged with impatient perfunctory purpose. And yet, they still stirred something deep and molten within the ELvenking’s chest as you slipped the dark green velvet of your trews down your hips, leaving them abandoned in a pile just behind you, before starting on the laces of your long overtunic. Once you’d shrugged out of that you were left in just a short white slip that hugged the swelling curves of your body and danced around your bared thighs, the unexpected, stunning sight leaving Thranduil’s breaths coming short and raspy from somewhere shallow in his chest.

 

He knew that it wasn’t smart to linger here, in the darkening woods, but by the Valar, he just couldn’t look away. He wanted to watch your slim form slip between the trees, to study the way the hem of your elven made under tunic fluttered about your thighs, to memorize the graceful curve of your arms, the smooth fall of your hair. And he was the King; if he wanted it, he would have it.

 

That justification sat heavy and accusatory within him, like a stone in his belly, and Thranduil was glad for the distraction when you began to sing. To his utter, deepening surprise your song was more than just pleasant, it was _enthralling_. Your voice was markedly Elven, but something grounded and primordial thrummed beneath it, a husk that the clear, crystalline voices of the Elves lacked, a wealth of emotion, of heartbreak that only the human in you could provide.

 

Your song began as a wordless melody, lilting, arid, as if the notes were floating just above the air, too lofty to touch the ground. They gave Thranduil pause, for they stirred deeply seated memories of another voice, one not quite as sweet but so dear to his heart that he momentarily, poignantly wondered if the bearer of that song was returned to him.

 

But when he focused back on the clearing he was hastily, thoroughly reminded that those notes were emanating from _you_ , from your sweet, smiling mouth and tantalizing lips, and he found himself quickly and thoroughly spellbound. Suddenly, Thranduil also felt small, perplexing stirrings of something that hovered dangerously close to possession, to jealousy, of this moment he was witnessing, of _you_ , and with a small, silent gesture he ordered his guards to move further away from the pair of you, far enough off that they could just barely hear your song.

 

You smiled as you sang, walking further into the clearing, your hands hovering purposefully about your hips, tripping up the curves of your waist as your song morphed slowly into syllables, then amazingly into Sindarin, the language of the High Elves, of his people.

 

Slowly, gradually, through the foggy din enthralling his spellbound mind Thranduil could make out your words.

 

_I hear your voice on the wind! I hear you call out my name!_

 

Thranduil suddenly longed to hear _his_ name slipping from your hypnotic, smiling lips, hear you uttering cries of happiness, of contentment, of _want_ to him, for him. Where in all of Middle Earth had that deep, poignant longing come from? Surely the dark, shadowed corners of Mordor. And yet, why did it feel more like a sweet, innate impulse from the Valar themselves?

 

_“Listen my child,” you say to me, “I am the voice of your history! Be not afraid, come follow me!”_

 

As you sang you began to sway your hips, your motions hypnotic, brimming with a low, bright sensuality that flared in your eyes, peeked from behind the curve of your lips, flashed in your smile. Thranduil dimly realized that he was bracing a palm on the smooth trunk of the tree he was half hidden behind, as if his knees were failing to support him. He quickly found that he didn’t give a damn.

_“Answer my call and I’ll set you free!”_

 

At that last word, at the mention of freedom, your dancing intensified, your feet began to bound, directing your slim, swirling form in graceful arcs and turns, carrying you around the clearing with such stunning grace that Thranduil momentarily questioned the verity your _Peredhel_ blood.

 

_I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain, I am the voice of your hunger and pain; I am the voice that always is calling you, I am the voice, I will remain!_

 

The traces of your Elvish heritage were clearly displayed in the lithe grace lilting in your limbs as they twisted and slipped through the air, in the elegant lines of your bending form, in the quick, expert twining and twirling of your feet as you swept through the clearing, nimble as a stag, but there was something else there too. Something that brought to Thranduil’s mind images of roaring fires and the great halls of men; of pleasures of the flesh, of hands – _his_ hands– slipping up your curves, parting your thighs, cupping your breasts, sliding possessively about your throat.

 

_I am the voice in the fields when the summer’s gone, the dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow! Ne’er do I sleep throughout all the cold winter long, I am the force that in springtime will grow._

 

Thranduil realized then that it was an earthiness of sorts, a thrumming sensuality that lay banked in your movements that could only be attributed to the human blood coursing hot and molten through your veins. The elves were known to dance beautifully, but this display, this show of grace and talent and pure _joy_ was more than just merely beautiful. It was brutally lustful, shamelessly taunting. It was _primal_ , and it struck Thranduil like nothing else ever had in his long, long life.

 

 

_I am the voice of the past that will always be filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields, I am the voice of the future! Bring me your peace, bring me your peace and my wounds they will heal! I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain, I am the voice of your hunger and pain; I am the voice that always is calling you, I am the voice of the future! I am the voice! I am the voice! I am the voice!_

 

 

When the song was ended your sharp, clear voice soared to a note that hovered somewhere around the crystalline stars and you sank to the ground, landing on your back, chest heaving with exertion, and he imagined excitement, your fingers falling open at your sides as a wide, enchanting, almost drunk smile curled your lips.

 

Thranduil couldn’t stop himself from leaning in towards you as light, intoxicating peals of your laughter rang through the clearing. As he watched your obvious joy, your sudden carefree state, Thranduil found a smile curving his own lips, something like pride curling hotly in his chest. He realized absently that it was _happiness_ that was flooding his limbs, adding weight to his stance, carrying his smile straight to his eyes. Bringing you a measure of joy, however miniscule it was, had brought his happiness, real and true, for the first time in many centuries.

 

There was something else lingering beneath that newfound pride and joy though, something like fear, like panic, though the Elvenking would never admit it to anyone but himself, even as it ran like ice through his veins, cloying in his throat and forcing his limbs to move, carrying him away from you, from the clearing and the pleasant sight of your rejoicing form.

 

Despite the gentle summer breeze beginning to wind through the trees as he made his way back to his fortress, to the safety of his known realm, Thranduil’s heart suddenly felt like a block of ice in his chest, like a raw, frosty appendage where before there had been nothing. And yet, beneath it all, thrumming perhaps strongest of all, the Elvenking was grateful that finally, after centuries of numbness, his bleak, frigid heart was actually beginning to thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! 
> 
> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this chapter, there isn't quite as much driving action, but I hope you like it nontheless :) I love hearing your feedback, so please do let me know any comments, questions, or suggestions that you may have! Thank you for all your fantastic support!
> 
> Mood Board!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/159826200894/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-4-anguish-and


	5. Innocence and Ire

Tauriel was late.

 

Not that your sore muscles and aching limbs were complaining all that much, but it was quite uncharacteristic for the flame haired Silvan elf to not be waiting diligently, bow and quiver in hand, for your daily training sessions. She was always steadfastly prompt and impeccably prepared for your instruction, her long red hair braided or swept over one canvas covered shoulder and her green eyes glinting with what you suspected was amusement at your obvious discomfort at what was to come.

 

Your training was  _grueling_ , hour after hour of incessantly repeated combat moves; unsheathe, notch, pull, loose, rinse, repeat. If you got even one miniscule thing incorrect in the handling of the bow that felt foreign and stiff in your hands she’d make you repeat that action a hundredfold, just to ensure that the tick was securely banished from your muscle memory.

 

You couldn’t claim that it was all bad however, you could see the benefit of being able to wield a long range weapon; easier stealth kills, decreased chance of premature detection, longer head start if your quarry discovered you. Besides, the bleeding in your fingers had stopped days ago, and thick, proud callouses were beginning to form in new places on your battle worn hands, evidence of your prowess with a weapon, of your danger. You bore them with pride; they said to the world,  _I may be slight but I can knock you flat on your back before you can blink._  And you meant it.

 

Smiling to yourself, twirling the arrow that you planned to notch on your simple, carven practice bow, you strode into the center of the spacious training room, your dark, roomy sparring pants whispering about your lithe legs as you walked. You flipped the wispy strands of hair that escaped from the long practical braid that slipped down your back out of your eyes as you took a steeling breath and in the merest blink of an eye you notched your bow, your arrow pointing straight and true. You couldn’t stop the grin that threatened to curve your lips at the sheer skill thrumming in your limbs, at the mastery seated there. As iron willed and obstinate as Tauriel was, the Elf knew her way around a bow and could teach _anyone_  to wield it.

 

Speaking of that hard headed flame haired female, where in all of Arda was the Captain?

 

As if in immediate answer to your mental ponderings a tall, male figure with hair of pure starlight, lofty form glinting like an alabaster flame, stirred in the corner of your vision, startling you somewhat, making you consider wheeling your drawn weapon to the invading being before you flicked your gaze in their direction and promptly realized exactly who it was that stood in your presence.

 

_The Elvenking._

 

For one long moment you just blinked, your weapon relaxing slightly in your fingers, jaw falling slack as your lips parted, your gaze caught in the sharp, unchanging cerulean of the King’s own blue orbs. And then he canted his head in a simple but elegant gesture, a smooth, roiling motion that gently but firmly reminded you to utilize your newfound manners. Abruptly, with slight embarrassment coloring your cheeks, you sank into a freshly perfected curtsy, tucking one slim ankle behind the other and dipping down, your gaze skittering across the King’s uncharacteristically casual garb as you gasped out a faint, “Your Majesty,” in greeting.

 

His long, starlit strands were bound out of his face in a long, slim braid that lay swept over one broad shoulder, a graceful circlet of pure silver encrusted with white gems glinting on his brow, reminding all that despite the absence of his usual finery, he was in fact still their King. And in place of those elegant robes were clothes that were cut as if for movement; dark pants that hung loose and generous on well-built hips and down strong, shapely legs, a tunic of some fine material that fit snug and becoming to his bulging biceps and immense shoulders. The collar of his shirt hung open slightly, revealing a swath of inviting skin that roiled just beneath his collar bones. You got the sudden urge then to flick your tongue in the hollows of his throat, to taste the salty skin there, and as you fiercely batted down those wanton, unruly urges you had to admit that,  _damn it all straight to Mordor_ , he looked  _good._  Not that you _should_  notice such a thing, surely it was well above your station, but Eru Ilúvatar  _had_  gifted you with eyesight, and it seemed such a pity to waste it, so in the end you looked your fill until the King’s pale head swung back up and that azure gaze was fixed on you once more.

 

“ _Peredhel_ ,” The King greeted you as something like a smirk flitted about his lips, his booted feet echoing in the vast chamber as he circled you, appraising, cataloging, “I am glad to see that your training is progressing. That will make my task much easier.”

 

“Your task?” You asked curiously, starkly reminded, as he prowled about you with all the imposition of a sleek, hungry jungle cat, of your first meeting with the King, when you had been sure your sentence would be death and this great monolith of a male had given you life instead. The King’s lips quirked into the barest of smiles then, at the unmasked anxious tinge to your tone, and he gifted you with the heavy weight of his gaze boring into yours, a strange warmth blooming unexpectedly behind his eyes before he answered.

 

“Yes, Halfling,” He replied, his tone low but playful, sparking rebellious shivers to erupt suddenly in your traitorous belly, “I am to take over your training. I do believe you shall find me a fit, if not unconventional, tutor.”

 

You really couldn’t stem the gape that yawned across your features at the revelation, shock manifesting itself in the upwards quirk of your eyebrows and the no doubt unbecoming slackening of your jaw. “B-But Tauriel, My Lord? Is she indisposed?” You managed to ask through the shock and undeniable excitement thrumming through your veins in response to the immense swath of alone time you’d just secured with the King.

 

“Tauriel is banished.” He said softly, dispassionately, but you were quickly learning to read the stoic, starlit King and his clandestine emotions. You spied something else sliding behind his eyes, wrinkling his smooth brow, something like hurt, like betrayal. “My son has gone as well.” The King added softly, as if it were an afterthought, but the lead sitting heavy in his words lent a healthy measure of weight, of soul deep upset, to the simple statement, and you knew then that the trite fact most likely never left his mind. Before you could even open your mouth to inquire further the King was producing a sword from a previously unseen sheath in his belt and brandishing the fine, glinting blade before him, celadon eyes dancing with abrupt and concealing mirth, banishing the shadows that lay heavy about them due to his earlier statements.

 

“But let us not dwell on irrelevant affairs. Your bow skills are impressive, but I do wonder how you handle a blade.” With the subtle slide of his gaze to a table waiting at the side of the training ring, a surface that usually bore refreshments and towels for freshening up, he directed your attention to a small package that sat innocently on the smooth wood. Your breath hitched as you recognized its elegant, curving shape and you hoped fervently then that your sudden suspicions about the bundle's contents were true.

 

You flicked your gaze from him to the package then back again, only moving towards it when you were sure you could reach it without being threatened by any unseen guards. Your hands shook slightly as they slid over the smooth leather binding the mysterious bundle, and you gasped when the oiled material fell away to reveal cold, glinting blessedly familiar metal.

 

_Your daggers!_

 

You slid your fingers reverently over your beloved blades, immense gratitude flooding through you at the knowledge that your treasured possessions had been diligently safeguarded and not cruelly disposed of as you’d feared, sudden and sharp emotion blooming fiercely in your chest at their sudden arrival in your waiting hands.

 

“You trust me with these?” You murmured, marveling at the King’s faith in your obedience to him, strangely touched by the simple but profound gesture.

 

“You have proven a diligent and tireless worker. I reward such qualities in my Kingdom. Besides, I do believe that I can hold my own sufficiently against a mere slip of a female, no matter how well trained she may be.” The arrogance in his tone was oddly endearing, even as it stoked a rebellious fire that flooded hot and heavy in your limbs, making you tilt your head and roil your stiff muscles in preparation to challenge this pompous monarch in what you intended to be a humbling spar.

 

“Care to test out that theory, Your Majesty?” You quipped, a smile curving your lips as you elegantly flipped the blades in your grasp, letting the hilts roll over the backs of your hands in a smooth, expert gesture, one that was not lost on the Monarch, judging by his answering grin that had something stirring molten and hot low in your belly in fervent response.

 

“After you, My Lady,” The King rasped, something gravely and rough banked in the mocking tinge coloring his tone, a vibrant intensity thrumming behind the amusement in his celadon gaze as he swung that imposing sword with masterful grace.

 

Not phased in the slightest, you began to circle him, pleased when he followed suit, elegant footsteps leading him in a wide path around your vigilant form. Your gazes stayed locked on each other as you swung in a wide orbit around the room, peripherals scanning for weaknesses to exploit, for chinks in stark defenses to aim at. Somewhere behind the watchful eye you kept on his sword-bearing arm and long lithe legs a small space inside your head was solely devoted to the appreciation of his immense form. He was truly a King, from the top of his pale, sardonic brow to the tips of his booted toes, and _damn_  did it suit him.

 

You were so busy admiring the wide slope of his shoulders and the becoming way that the dark material of his tunic clung to the broad cut of his pectorals that you nearly missed the incoming parry of his wicked sword, pure unaltered instinct lending you the foresight to jump out of the way at the last moment, anger and admonishment making you raise one sharp dagger to swipe at the lean muscle of his offending tricep.

 

“Keep your guard up,” The King instructed, a knowing gleam in his gaze as he spoke, as if he knew exactly where your thoughts had lain, though you couldn’t quite tell if he disproved of their tantalizing location or not.

 

Wiping an angered forearm over your brow, you huffed, frustrated with your lack of focus, and resumed your guarded stance, your weapons poised and ready in your hands, eyes scanning his circling form with diligently focused attention, frazzled senses steadfastly trying to ignore the comely ripple of his tunic about the muscled waist that you wanted to grip tight as that monolithic body worked over yours, sturdy climbable hips flexing measuredly, agonizingly slow against you-

 

_Focus!_

 

You internally chided yourself, shaking your head slightly to dispel those wildly misplaced carnal thoughts, unable to dislodge them completely, settling instead for their soft swelter that burnt hot and molten, low in your belly.

 

You were watching when he lunged next, fast as a bolt of lightning, moving to place that glinting, deadly sword at your neck. You sidestepped easily, watching as he flew past you and turned on one elegant foot, lithe movements too quick and agile to attribute to mere mortal strength, spinning easily to face you once more.

 

“Better,” The King cooed, something biting in the praise, like the thorn that grew on the rose bush, whispering fervently that there could be no beauty without danger, no pleasure without pain. You supposed that made sense with this strange, complicated Monarch and his shaded past, but that infuriating tone spurred you to more reckless tactics.

 

“Don’t forget, My King; I am partly human,” You husked as you sidled closer to him, ensuring that your hips bore an extra sway to their lilt and your shoulders swooped just so to display the generous curves of your breasts; you couldn’t stem the brilliant warmth that flooded deep in your chest when the King’s eyes dropped to that wanton display of your body, something flashing silver and wanting in his eyes, “And that means I play dirty.”

 

At that last word you lunged, kicking his sword hand hard with a booted foot, causing him to drop the blade in favor of keeping his wrist intact, using your distraction gained proximity to twirl into his opened stance, whirling your daggers so that one lay pressed against his throat, the other sat tucked firmly into the cradle of his thigh, somewhere near his femoral artery. The sparse length of your daggers meant that you were flush against him now, chest heaving with exertion, the sweat slickening skin exposed by your light training tunic pressed tight against the solid wall of his chest.

 

The wry grin that had curved of its own volition on your smiling lips froze when you realized just how  _close_ you were, and how wildly inappropriate that tantalizing closeness must be. You could perceive that he had stopped breathing, judging by the stillness of the firm flesh that roiled beneath your fingers, and you absently realized that you had too. Your gaze skittered upwards, up and up only to get caught firmly in the bright blue of his darkening gaze, heated and intent as it was on you.

 

“I-I am sorry, Your Majesty,” You tripped over your own words as you glanced down to where your bodies were pressed together, flushing deeply at the sight, unable to admit to yourself just how much the sight pleased you. Your voice was merely above a whisper and was tinged with a quiet hopefulness, one that was matched in the tone of the King as he replied.

 

“Do not be,” He said, a keen appreciation seated heavy in his voice, making pleasant tingles trip down your spine,“It has been quite some time since I have been bested in a spar. You have my admiration,  _Peredhel_.”

 

In response you simply flushed, backing away from him slowly, a slight smile playing about your lips as you marveled at the diplomacy in his statement, your reverence and excitement distracting you as you peeled off the light sweat-stained tunic hanging from your shoulders, movement spurned heat and something else just as molten making your skin flushed and hot. You had all but forgotten about the tattoo curving elegantly around your shoulder blade when abruptly, out of nowhere you were seized by the waist and slammed none so gently into the rock-hewn pillar standing nearby, your wrists bound securely behind you by the iron manacle of the King's hands, his looming body stretching over your back, his shadow consuming your small form in its leaden weight.

 

Feeling sharp, shattering pinpricks beginning to roar to life in your hands, fingertips screaming for circulation, you huffed out frightened breaths and fervently wondered what in all of Arda you possibly could have done to anger the King so much, especially after such a good natured spar. When he spoke his voice was all red hot rage and searing anger, calling to mind the sharp, unyielding bite of torrential downpours and dark, shadowed sullen winter's nights.

 

 

"Where did you get that mark upon your back, Halfling? Speak quickly, for I will not hesitate to harm a female when it comes to matters of my late Wife..."

 

You knew that you should be afraid now, that you should most likely beg for your life, but truly, all you could think of as the King's warm, panting breaths skittered over your cheekbones and the hot expanse of his huffing chest pressed firmly into your back, was...

 

_Wife?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this new chapter! It's a little shorter than usual, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next update, some insane stuff is about to go down! But for now, enjoy this little update, complete with our favorite flirty Elvenking :) Thank you so much for all of your support, you are the BEST!
> 
> Moodboard coming soon! (If anyone is interested!)  
> EDIT: Moodboard posted! Next chapter coming soon!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/160170921674/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-5-innocence-and


	6. Satisfied and Salacious

It had been such a long time since Thranduil had felt anything but numbness, anything but the vast yawning abyss of apathy that had rigidly sustained him for so many years with its stale breath and cloying, cold fingers obdurately propping up the heaving walls of his bleeding heart when he’d wanted to do naught but let them cave in, that it took him the span of a few rattling breaths to comprehend the full extent of what he was feeling.

 

_Confusion._

 

Not a strong enough word to encompass the formless smoke whispering through his senses, making the sure slide of his fingers falter as they slipped down your ribs, the wide fans of his eyelashes bat heavily against his cheeks and his pale brow furrow deeply, but he didn’t have time to ponder further. Your body was trembling slightly beneath his solid grasp, warm, sweat slicked skin quivering against the pads of his fingers, into the wide palms of his hands and somewhere in the back of his mind he railed against his own body, chastising, demanding that any touches he graced upon your flesh be gentle, reverent, pleasing.

 

_Wrath._

 

If only you’d stop looking so stars accursedly _hurt_ as you gazed back at him, head tilted painstakingly to hold his gaze, eyes brimming with a distinct, roiling turmoil that he felt sear deep into his chest, then maybe he could think around the roaring din screaming in his crowded mind. He fervently tried to look past the full, rounded curves of your parted mouth, white teeth flashing behind petal pink lips like pure alabaster, making him long to feel their dull bite against the thick chords of his neck, down his chest and lower, to parts that he hadn’t even _thought_ of in centuries; past the twitching shell of your ear nearest to him and its damning shape, so gently pointed that at a careless glance one could assume that its bearer was fully human, though upon closer inspection the lilting curve and gently pointed tip were clear markers of Elven blood; past the glimmering, glinting depths of your eyes, searching urgently for some hint of reason in his enraged face, though Thranduil knew you would find none lingering there. He pushed aside those observations, those spellbinding notions, to focus fully on the incriminating mark marring your smooth, otherwise unbroken skin, elegant lines shifting as you gasped in harsh breaths, stark borders taunting him, winking at him, gnawing in their perplexing implications.

 

_Hope._

He refused to let those balmy, glorious tendrils spread too easily in his chest, batting them away with the salacious slap of his internal voice chiding, biting, at that silly flurry of emotion to cease, but longing, it would seem, wouldn’t listen even to a King.

 

Thranduil could tell that you were afraid, that fear robbed you of your speech and stole the breath from your heaving lungs, but there was something else sliding behind your eyes, something warm and tantalizing. Something that fiercely resembled _lust_ as it punched through his veins in answer, heavy and molten and so damned _good_ , all the way down to his very bones.

 

“I will not ask again,” Thranduil intoned, the dark malice twisting in his voice surprising even him, and as if in apology for it he marginally loosened the hold that the iron chains of his fingers wove around the slim bands of your wrists, captured firmly in his grip, before he continued, “How did this mark come to be upon your flesh.”

 

“T-The tattoo was the end result of a bargain,” anxious unease made your words quaver slightly as they fell from your lips, those wicked curves drawing and holding his gaze, tempting him to taste them, to learn their shape just as well as he knew his own, angering him further before you continued, “I acquired it many moons ago from a Seeress outside of Minas Tirith, as payment of thanks in exchange for the recounting of the sad tale of my life. The sorceress was of obvious power and influence; to have refused her would have been to curse myself.”

 

Words flew from your mouth like moths to a flame, a steady stream of utterances that Thranduil’s whirring mind could barely keep up with. His eyes dropped to that mark once more, fresh pain searing in his chest as the undeniable shape it wrought branded his mind, and he barked out his next order to draw his attention away from aching, ancient memories of long strands of starlit hair slipping through his fingers like silk, of pale, smiling lips and bright, laughing eyes meeting his. He had laughed much back then, when _she_ had still been by his side. In fact, the only time he had felt even remotely close to true mirth in the last millennia had been just moments ago, in the company of a slight, bawdy Halfling who smiled as easily as the summer breeze slipped through the trees and taunted him with no regard for the consequences.

 

“Elaborate.”

 

His voice was all jagged edges and harsh, pricking peaks, but the roiling, unfamiliar emotions roaring in his chest were just too encumbering for him to even attempt to don his usual equanimity.

 

“She appeared as if from nowhere on my path to the White City, hair black as the inky depths of night, cloaked in a dusty cape of some ragged cloth, though her eyes were clear and bright and her voice pleasant. She bade me to sit with her by the small fire she was tending and share in her supper, so I did. We talked for many hours, long into the night, though she showed no signs of weariness.” Your brow furrowed then and Thranduil sensed that you far away from him, lost in pure memory; he longed suddenly, poignantly, for your return, “As I spoke I felt as though I were conversing with something deeper, something far older than the mere crones’ appearance that she took. There were a few times that I swear I saw pure starlight in her eyes, crisp and clear and unlike anything I have ever witnessed since, besides when I look up at the night sky.” You seemed to shake yourself then, returning abruptly to the present, and you flushed suddenly, glancing away from Thranduil, “When I finished my tale she insisted that she give me a gift in return, though I hardly think the somber stories of my many sordid travels warranted a mark of such beauty. Before I left she said the strangest thing to me, as if in both warning and celebration.”

 

“What?” Thranduil rasped heatedly, mind working fervently to divine meaning from your elusive tale.

 

“She said, _the tombless shall be embodied, the fleshless made whole, the spirit that wanders will once more find its soul._ ” You bit your lip as you paused, your gaze flickering up to meet Thranduil’s as you pondered those strange words that struck the King deep in his heaving breast. “To this day I still don’t know what it means.”

 

Thranduil had to stifle the sharp gasp that caught shaky and sudden in his throat, failing utterly to stem the urgent bloom of warm, allaying hope that grew deep in his chest, that rejoiced at its freedom, curling blithely around his cold, cold heart and kissing away the icy chill that sat banked deep there. Thranduil had a gnawing suspicion about exactly who that shadowed stranger you’d met on the road had been, a suspicion fostered by your unique description of her.

 

_I swear I saw pure starlight in her eyes, crisp and clear and unlike anything I have ever witnessed since, besides when I look up at the night sky…_

Thranduil was old enough to remember a time before this age when the Valar had still been close at hand, when mystery had still been alive and sprightly, when the forests had been younger and his father had still told jocund stories of _their_ coming, _their_ intervening in the affairs of Elves and Men and Dwarves. The stories of _Her_ , of the _Star Kindler_ , had been his favorite, as she was the most beloved deity of the Elves. Hers were the stars, the wheeling heavens, the glinting azure skies, and in the time before ages his people had lived by her light, dancing and rejoicing in the eternal twinkle of her pearly dominion.

 

Her interventions in the affairs of middle earth were not unheard of, and Thranduil was a King, why couldn’t Elbereth Gilthoniel Herself have a hand in his long, arduous life?

 

But what of that mark on your smooth skin, the one shifting on your shoulder blade there, roiling beneath his very eyes? Why would Elbereth gift you with such a symbol, laden with rich, supplicating, voracious meaning?

 

A winsome, errant thought whispered through Thranduil’s mind then, a wicked notion spurred by half remembered tales of Finwë and Míriel, the parents of the mighty Fëanor, and their many trials. Míriel had died shortly after giving birth to Fëanor, losing all will to live, bypassing her customary Elven immortality. By choosing not to return to her family, instead remaining in the Halls of Mandos, she had deprived Finwë most unnaturally of his chosen spouse, and Fëanor of his mother. Thranduil had long given this melancholy tale deep consideration in the time since his wife’s passing, wondering when she would return, _if_ she would return. He’d often speculate if her life had in fact been so dreadful with him, so abominable that his beloved would chose not to return to him and her son but to eternally slumber, as was the choice of Míriel. No matter how dark and murky his thoughts became, those fragile, elusive plumes of bright hope had always curled around his heart, valiantly stroking his temples to whisper, _there is another path_ , and indeed there was.

 

_Reincarnation._

 

Could you, this lithe slip of a female trembling against the broad panes of his chest like a leaf in the gusting wind, with your warm, flashing eyes like deep pools of pure autumn, that molten sultry _human_ heat banked in your lithe limbs and your remarkably Elven voice that could make Eru _Ilúvatar_ himself weep, be his delicate, starlit, lucent-haired wife returned to him?

 

“Impossible…” He ground out, but he found his hands tightening on you, grip spurred by something closer to possession than disbelief.

 

He spun you abruptly, handling your body easily, hands sliding over your curves, twisting you so that you faced him, fingers pulling your hips harshly so that you were flush against his body, all previously stark and clearly laid boundaries shattered abruptly so that he could study you more closely. He released your hands then, confident that you wouldn’t dare try any adverse movements thanks to your frightened state, and curled a broad hand under your chin to tilt your face up to him, his eyes exploring the intricacies of the features that were upturned so surreptitiously towards him.

 

Thranduil studied your face with all the rapture of a starving man presented with a sprawling feast. He knew that his eyes were hungry, predatory even, but the hint of bright promise that you’d flashed him, that tantalizing glimmer of avowal that you’d played at, had him ravenous for more. He supposed that he could see some remnants of his wife in the smooth curve of your brow, the full bow of your lips, in the bright twinkle of your eyes, but there were still so many stars accursed differences. His wife’s eyes had been pale, like fresh bowls of cream reflecting the barest hint of morning’s first rays, luminescent and ethereal. He’d loved to gaze into them, a smile flitting about his lips as he’d held her gentle, delicate hand in his. Your eyes were deeper somehow, darker not as much in color but from the murky shadows of grim experience. Your hands had seen hard times, battle even, and were calloused and lithe, moving with intent and deadly precision. If his wife had been a rose, beautiful and full of blooming, fragile life, then you were a lock of deadly nightshade, dark, seductive and undeniably dangerous.

 

And yet, still he saw something deep in the recesses of your glinting gaze, in the tilt of your slim shoulders, the ghost of a queen’s demeanor perhaps, the errant wisp of starlight playing at your brow that had him wondering if maybe, just maybe, you were his beloved returned.

 

“M-Majesty?” You questioned, your voice low and careful, tone pliant, as though you were trying to calm a bucking bronco, to break a wild stallion. As if coming out of a daze Thranduil suddenly realized that his large hands were curled tight around your upper arms in what had to be a painful grip and he was leaning in sharply towards you, his face mere inches from yours, heaving breaths fanning gently over your skin, and abruptly he noted that if he moved just so he could capture your pliant lips in his.

 

The wave of want that tripped up his spine to curl hot and urgent in his stomach in response to that impulse surprised him, shamed him, and he found himself stumbling back from your frozen form, palms raising as if in apology, brow furrowing deeply. He shook his head slightly as he slowly retreated from that compromising position, canting his head side to side in a fruitless attempt to clear the cobwebs that cluttered thick and dense his mind, emotions swirling leaden in his chest, cloying his breaths, stuttering his pulse. He needed clean air, space to think, time to plan. If you were truly his wife reborn then he had preparations to make, arrangements to settle, courtships to draw out. And if you weren’t….

 

Well, in all honesty Thranduil didn’t think his poor thawing heart could withstand that crushing blow at the moment.

 

“What is it, Your Majesty, I don’t understand,” You questioned urgently, stepping towards his retreating form with hasty intent in your movements, as if you meant to follow him, and for a long, aching moment he wished that you would, “What have I done? What about this mark has angered you so much?” Tears were glinting in your eyes now, as vibrant and fragile as crystal, shimmering on the curves of your lashes like the bright, radiant gems of Lasgalen that he’d long coveted. Each one tore at his heart, opening his old, aching wounds anew. He paused before he answered, the heavy yawning silence screaming like the creak of old, rusted chains and long forgotten slaughters, and he let it sit empty in the air before he found the strength to answer.

 

“That is the marker that lies upon the epitaph of my wife.”

 

* * *

 

 

The King had left you a gift.

 

It had sat innocently upon your bed when you’d returned to your rooms, complete with a note in Elvish that you’d clumsily translated as “Wear Me.” It taunted you with its beauty, spread out like a crimson river of silk and lace, glinting as if it had all the right in the world to be seated upon your plush duvet, as if it didn’t imply an apology or hint at his severely misplaced curiosity. You’d sighed heavily upon noticing it, your brow furrowing as the roiling confusion storming in your breast deepened, making you bypass the study of it in favor of the comfort of a steaming bath. This day had been a tumult of emotion, from the lighthearted, even flirty sparring of the morn, followed by the King’s deep rage and vicious interest concerning the mark upon your back, to his current late afternoon lovesick gift giving.

 

Not a single thing in all of the long, tumultuous years of your life could have possibly prepared you for the sudden turn of events that had taken place these past few weeks, let alone in the course of the past few hours. In the blink of an eye you had gone from dirty vagabond skulking in the lofty trees of the forest to a well-dressed, pristine, if not anxious charge pacing in the vast, luxurious rooms that the King of Mirkwood had provided for you.

 

Every so often you’d raise your fingers to sweep your curious touch over the mark that curled elegantly over your shoulder, the skin of your arms and back exposed by that aggravatingly alluring dress that you’d been unable to resist donning after your long bath, it’s fine fabric sliding soft and plush over your damp skin, and wonder what in all of Arda that Seeress had been thinking when she’d inked this symbol into your flesh. Had she known what would come of it not even months, but years later? Had there been a purpose to her seemingly coincidental choice?

You’d had many lovers since its appearance upon your skin admire the symbol in the murky, exhausted twilight that followed your hasty, if not passionate, lovemaking, and indeed you bore it with pride, but anger was something that you were rarely met with concerning the tattoo. What had made your interaction with the King all the more puzzling was the mystery of his parting words to you…

 

_That is the marker that lies upon the epitaph of my wife._

 

What could it possibly mean that a symbol of the King’s beloved wife sat on your own body? You shivered suddenly then from something that was not quite cold, as no comfort came to you when you wrapped your slim arms tight around your body in an attempt to banish the strange chill from your skin. For some reason those words struck a chord of unease deep within you, though the feeling was tinged with the slightest hint of excited anticipation. There had been a heavy sinew of obsession in the King’s gaze as he’d studied you, a wild, feral hope that ran abound in his eyes and a generous, abiding strength in his limbs that had so easily wrapped around your waist that made the breath huff out of your lungs, your body tense and your heart race in fervent anticipation.

 

Though you’d been undeniably frightened by the swiftness of his rage and the completeness of his harsh touches on you, you would be lying if you’d said that you hadn’t _liked_ the dominating tenacity thrumming in his long, nimble fingers, in the roiling muscles of his biceps, the sturdy wall of his chest. You’d had to bite your tongue to keep from moaning and curling against him like a cat in heat when those huge hands had wrapped hotly around your hips and pulled you into the immense warmth of his body. Given even a second of rash unthinking boldness, you might’ve done just that, and you sincerely doubted that you would’ve regretted it.

 

You were harshly broken from your carnally tinged thoughts when the door to your vast rooms swung open with a gentle creak and in stepped the King himself, all traces of royal jewels blessedly absent from his person save the gems that glittered about his fingers, leaving his pale brow unadorned and that silver fall of hair swinging freely about his shoulders, tempting you to lace your fingers through it and feel it’s pure, silky weight. You weren’t sure if you were anxious or glad to see him, but there was certainly something molten and leaden that played low in your stomach as the door clicked closed behind him.

 

He was clad in a simple robe that was tied about his trim waist, its sleek, smooth sides falling slightly open at the collar to reveal a wide swatch of smooth, utterly kissable skin that you were dying to explore. Your eyes must have dipped and lingered there of their own accord, for the next thing you knew the King was clearing his throat with obvious amusement, a knowing smile flitting about his smirking lips as he clasped his hands behind his back.

 

“I see you received my gift.” He said, graciously sparing you any further embarrassment, his expression pleased as he surveyed you. Those suspicions from your first night here in the Kingdom, when you’d absently wondered if the King had selected clothes for you out of a desire to see them gracing your body, were suddenly confirmed as he spoke, and you were slightly perplexed to feel a healthy dose of elation flood through your limbs in response.

 

“I did,” You spoke in an attempt to distract yourself from the nerves fluttering anxiously in your belly, though it utterly failed as the King drew near, moving so close that you could feel the slight heat of his body, smell the tantalizing, ancient woodland scent that lingered about him, “It is most beautiful.”

 

“As is its wearer,” The King replied without missing a beat, the suave smoothness of his reply leaving your jaw slightly slack as you scrambled to recover from the light handed complement, “Earth tones quite suit you, _Peredhel_.”

 

“The reason of my visit goes beyond stating the obvious, however,” The King continued as he passed you to stride over to the curricle sitting by the armoire where Iôlhel styled your hair, fragile glass clinking gently as he poured two gossamer goblets of dark red wine, “I came to apologize.”

 

You were glad that the King’s back was turned as he said that, for you couldn’t even attempt to hide your momentous surprise at his statement. You got the sense that apologies were not something often found in the King’s repertoire, and as such you wisely took this meeting as the treasure that it was, letting him continue before you replied.

 

“I am truly sorry if I frightened you earlier,” The King said, referring to the scant hours ago when he’d cornered you, hands roaming freely over your body, intense gaze boring into you, and though the sensations that he’d wrought hardly merited remorse, you accepted the gesture regardless, “I was just surprised to see that mark upon your skin. It is a symbol I have not spied in quite some time, I was caught off guard.”

 

The King turned then, bearing two brimming cups in each hand, offering one towards you on slim, strong fingers. As you took it those digits brushed against yours, sending a wave of tingles skittering across your flesh and a telling blush blooming hotly on your cheekbones. You glanced away from him as you accepted the glass, nursing it gently in the palm of your hand, leaning lightly against the back of a chair that sat by the roaring fire that Iôlhel had stoked earlier, trying hard not to glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

 

“Please, My Lady,” The King said suddenly, with such gentle invocation in his voice that it stole your breath away, that moniker slipping true and without any hints of mockery from his lips as he crossed to you and gathered one of your hands slim in his immense one, the beseeching touch of skin against skin shocking you to your very core, “Forgive me.”

 

His celadon eyes were glinting with _real_ emotion, _true_ remorse and appeal, _feeling_ shimmering in his gaze as clear as day, as if a dam in his very soul had broken, a stalwart levy ruptured, and the effect was positively dizzying. Cold, stoic Thranduil, sarcastic, playful Thranduil, even raging, fiery Thranduil you could handle in stride, but charming, pleading Thranduil?

 

You feared you were sorely out of your comfort zone here.

 

“O-Of course, Your Majesty.” You stammered in reply, gazing up at him through the dark canvas of your lashes, hardly daring to breathe as a spellbinding smile curved those tempting lips. He braced a hand on the spine of the chair that you rested on, fingers curling just inside the curve of your waist as he leaned in further, causing the sultry musk of leaves and sweet sap to wash over you, making you lightheaded.

 

“I am relieved, _Peredhel_ ,” The King said, his voice low and thrumming with something dangerously lilting, “For without your forgiveness how can I proceed to court you?” You started in shock at his words, your mind not daring to believe that a Sindarin Elf King would presume to want a lowly orphaned Halfling such as yourself, shock coloring your features plainly, though he just smiled and continued, “You do not think I can court you, My Lady?” Before you could object he had leaned in further, hot breath rasping over the skin of your neck, playing in the hair that sat at your nape, wreaking havoc on your poor senses.

 

“I know which spots are most sensitive on a young Elf maiden’s body.” You scoffed in the back of your throat at the insinuation behind that word, _maiden_ , but the way his lips were ghosting along your jaw, his hot breath searing against your skin, had the sound erupting more like a soft growl than an incredulous scuffle. ”The hollows of the throat,” He whispered against your neck, just barely pressing his lips into the quivering flesh there, making you mewl before he continued his enticing journey, “The collarbones,” His lips rasped hot and wet over the curves there, “The nape of the neck,” You felt the silky strands of his starlit hair brush softly over the exposed skin of your arms as he leaned in, head just barely tucked into the crook of your neck so that his wicked mouth could access the warm skin hidden there, “The tips of the ears.” You couldn’t stifle your gasp when he moved those soft lips to the delicate shell of your ear, lips ghosting determined and sinful, the sensations he wrought utterly _riveting._ After so many years of hiding that part of you, fearful of that incriminating feature and its deadly implications, that carnal acknowledgment of it had you shivering hard in his arms, made a pleading, broken sound erupt from your throat, “Y-Your Majesty!”

 

“Thranduil,” He corrected gently, teeth nipping at the delicate peak of your ear, the personal moniker suddenly fitting as the warm, sturdy wall of his chest enveloped you, curving around your shaking form.

 

And then just as quickly as he’d approached he was gone, his warmth torn regrettably from your body, his lips jarringly absent from your skin, his voice lamentably gone from your ear, and deep in your soul you mourned the loss. You blinked slowly, dazed from the onslaught of his mouth on your pliant flesh, and hastily you gripped the smooth canvas of the chair behind you for support, breathing hard as you glanced up at the Elvenking. His expression was all male smugness, pure virile accomplishment and potency, and as much as you wanted to slap it right off of his face, another louder part wanted to demand that he return to his ministrations immediately.

 

He did no such thing, however, he just sipped his wine, draining the cup halfway before canting his head towards you, “I shall call upon you tomorrow, _Peredhel_ , I believe that we have much to discuss.” He grinned as he placed his cup on the smooth surface of the curricle, the playful expression making him appear about a millennia younger, a fact aided by the teasing words that he leaned in to whisper at your ear as he passed you, “Perhaps we can sup together, finally compare those scars.”

 

As you watched him depart, the gentle wave of his blonde hair glinting like a spark of pure silver against the dark material of his robe, you realized absently that you could add another emotion to the heavily burgeoning list of affects you’d already experienced today, though this one was arguably the most enjoyable of them all, sitting heavy and molten, low in your belly, firing fierce and brave through your limbs and curling seductively around your heart.

 

_Lust._

And, a smile playing wantonly about your lips, you found that you quite liked the feel of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers!
> 
> This was an intense chapter to write, but I hope you all liked it! I have so many great things planned for the proceeding chapters in this fic, please stay tuned! If you have any comments, questions or concerns please don't hesitate to voice them, I love your feedback! 
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Mood Board!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/160350742294/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-6-satisfied-and


	7. Dusk and Dawn

To your great surprise, you found you were only mildly annoyed at being called up bright and early the very next morning, roused by the soft, honeyed voice and tame prodding’s of Iôlhel’s lilting words and work wearied hands. You cracked a reluctant eyelid open to survey your Elven friend’s amber gaze glinting mirthfully at you, a small smile playing about her roseate lips as the thick auburn braid her hair was woven into swayed gently with each firm press of her adept fingers at your pliant, sleep-cloaked shoulders.

 

“My Lady,” Iôlhel’s familiar pleasant lilting voice intoned softly somewhere near your ear, “I’m sorry to rouse you so early, but you have been summoned to the King’s court. Your presence is needed at once.” You groaned at her words and the insinuations they posed, burrowing deeper into the plush covers, pressing your face defiantly into the silken whisper of fabric that served as a pillow resting beneath your heavy head.

 

“Summoned?” You questioned in a sleep-hoarse voice, struggling to shake off saccharine dreams that clung to you like a fine mist of early morning dew, images of tantalizing silver hair glinting like a river of moonbeams in the balmy kiss of midnight, of ring adorned fingers slipping along warm, pliant skin and full, smirking lips tracing ancient patterns onto quivering flesh, “Whatever for?”

 

“I could not say My Lady, I am not privy to such matters, but my orders are of the utmost urgency.” The anxious tinge to her voice told you as much. The thought of Iôlhel suffering any undue flack for your lack of haste sat ill with you, so after a heartbeat of uneasy stillness in which you caught your breath you wrought your body into a bone creaking stretch, back bowing, muscles unknotting, and sat up, rubbing the dark grit of sleep from your weary eyes.

 

“Will I ever not be corralled like prized chattel in this Kingdom, my friend?” You questioned with a healthy dose of chagrin coloring your tone, a sad smile twining your lips as you glanced at Iôlhel, a sympathetic expression answering yours on the Elf maiden’s own comely face.

 

“That I could not say either, My Lady,” She replied, guiding you over to the immense wooden dresser that stood near the sprawling bed so that she could help you don the appropriate garments for your court audience, “But the gifts that His Majesty sends certainly don’t hurt.” Her words were effectively punctuated by the wealth of glinting fabrics that were revealed by the deep groan of those timber doors swinging open, each exquisite gifted garment glimmering like a fine jewel set within a modest crown; a flash of ruby red velvet there, a hint of moon pale opal taffeta here, a thread of sumptuous gold embroidery there.

 

 _She had a point_ , you mused as you surveyed the vast sea of options swaying on embossed ivory hangers before you, a rueful smile curving your lips as you grinned at each other, nearly squealing at the luxury before you, and in that moment you were immensely glad for the Elven maid’s kinship.

 

You ran tremulous fingers over the smooth silk of the dress closest to you, a lavender gown with a simple skirt and detailed embroidery along the neckline, admiring the lavish slide of it through your upturned digits.

 

“Do you wish to wear that one to court?” Iôlhel asked softly at your side, eyes fixed reverently on the pale, fine fabric. “He might like the way it brings out your eyes.” You canted your head sharply towards her, shocked at her candor, fiercely batting away the butterflies that roared to life deep in your belly at the mention of _him_ and what he might like to see on your form. Iôlhel shrugged shamelessly, pinning you with a knowing look gained from the many stories that you had told her of you and the King, the expression banked in her honey eyes saying that she was neither blind nor daft and you felt a glimmer of gladness at her comfort in your presence fizzle deep in your chest, winding around the heat banked suddenly there. You’d decided to accept her candor and jovial spirit at the price of the incessant ‘My Lady’s’ that she would not stop addressing you with.

 

“No,” You said finally after a long pause, a smirk curving your lips as your fingers abandoned the innocent violet frock to trip over to a more daring gown  of pale cream flowers and fine gossamer mesh, “I think this one will do quite nicely, don’t you think, Iôlhel?”

 

You could just barely perceive her incredulous gasp as you unhooked the hanger from its respective place in your wardrobe and spread it out into outstretched hands for your dual adoring gazes, two pairs of eyes reverently taking in the razor thin, sheer fabric embossed all over with curling vines and blooming flowers, some situated quite intentionally over particularly revealing bits on your torso, set in sprawling designs that wound around your waist to cinch in a thin belt of cream lace, then flow in a bevy of pale, flower sprinkled silk to your feet.

 

“My Lady, it is gorgeous! You will be a vision! Oh and I’ll pin your hair back into the most lovely of styles, it won’t take me but a few moments, let me just-”

 

And with that you were whisked away to the expansive armoire and promptly set down on the plush velvet chair that stood before it, engaged in a friendly but spirited conversation with your maidservant and friend about what materials made the best hair adornments and why it was so. The minutes flew by and your nerves at seeing the King, with his pale, intense gaze and plush, tempting lips that always seemed to smirk quite teasingly at you, were effectively forgotten in the ensuing girlish excitement.

 

But the crushing weight of those glimmering worries were slung back onto your slim shoulders as Iôlhel fastened that last tie of the breathtaking ivory confection that lay settled about your body, the clasp closing with a satisfying _click_ , her deft fingers slipping from the small of your back with the barest rustle of taffeta and silk.

 

“There,” Iôlhel said, satisfaction plain in her lilting voice, her deft hands settling confidently in the curves of her cobalt wool clothed waist as she surveyed her handiwork, “He certainly won’t be able to keep his hands off of you now!”

 

“Iôlhel!” You gasped, though there was no ire in the statement, but rather excitement tinged mirth punctuated by the ensuing fit of giggles that you shamelessly dissolved into. Your laughing eyes met in the mirror as she ran an attentive hand over the ruffled ivory rose blooming on the curve of your shoulder and you brushed her strong, cool fingers with your own seeking digits in a flurry of sudden emotion. “Thank you, my friend. I am blessed by all the Valar to have an ally such as you in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

Iôlhel’s bronze eyes glinted with just the barest hint of unshed, deeply touched tears before she gave a nod of her slim, quavering chin and squeezed your fingers affectionately, “And I you, My Lady. It is unspeakably refreshing to find a fellow female in this court that isn’t concerned with her position or power, or otherwise the cleanliness of the kitchens dishcloths. I believe we are kindred spirits, you and I.” You smiled at her as a moment of pure, unaltered friendship, deep and abiding, passed between the pair of you like a gilded, unbreakable thread, winding steadfastly around your heart, showing in the corners of your eyes and the ease of your smiles, “Though I _do_ know what you would do without me, and your unruly hair would be a rightful mess.” You barked out a rather unlady like peal of laughter at that, smiling as your shoulders shrugged in a small admission of defeat to your beaming Elven comrade. After a moment of shared mirth Iôlhel shook her tawny mane and squared her slim shoulders, though small, unassuming dimples flashed in her pink cheeks when she attempted to suppress her pleasant smile. “Come My Lady, His Majesty will be waiting, and neither of us are in the mood to deal with his ire.”

 

Given the King’s habit of dropping in unannounced at your chamber doors, you were slightly surprised to find that you had gone the full length of your preening without him interrupting, though a slim spear of disappointment slid in your chest as you stepped out into the abandoned hallway, Iôlhel close by your side. The gentle warmth of her arm at your elbow helped to steel the crestfallen wheeling of your heart somewhat. The Elven maiden led you steadfast and true through winding, carven passageways and down sturdy, chiseled stairways until the expansive hallway you found yourself in began to look suspiciously familiar.

 

“Are we near the throne room?” You whispered to Iôlhel, ducking your head on instinct as a Mirkwood guard bedecked in full military regalia passed you, dark hair swaying about his gold and green armor, embossed sword glinting at his side. Once his footsteps faded out of earshot, she whispered her reply.

 

“Just outside of it.” She chanced a troubled glance behind her, pale brow furrowing under the weight of fresh worries, “I wonder why that Elf was wearing his formal uniform; usually the guards only do that when the Royal Company is preparing to depart the Kingdom.”

 

You weren’t given time to ponder that statement before you found yourself stepping into the King’s throne room, flooded abruptly by memories of your first audience with the King, back when you’d been more vagabond than advisor, more stranger than consort.

 

"I’ll take my leave now,” Iôlhel’s soft voice intoned by your side, the jolt of panic her words sent skittering down your spine making you flash fevered eyes towards her, “Dont fret, I'll be waiting right outside, Mistress."

 

You thanked her quietly after a few steeling breaths, inclining your head towards her in a gesture of gratitude much too miniscule to be adequate, but the warmth in her answering smile helped abate that discrepancy somewhat.

 

The King turned to the doorway upon hearing the gentle patter of your footsteps, and the breath caught momentarily in your throat at the sight of him, your heart seizing suddenly in your breast in response to the heavy weight of his piercing gaze. Even though you’d seen him not even twelve hours previous, the dashing, elegant figure he cut as he paced the steps of his dais, prowling like a hungry, lethal jungle cat, the dark velvet of his robes swishing imperceptibly with each stride of his elegant booted feet, still made nervous tremors erupt in your belly, still had heat curling on your cheekbones and your eyes darting to the oaken floor and back to his immense form again and again.

 

Despite the rapid shifting of your gaze you didn’t miss the way that his eyes lingered on you, expression molten and wanting, lips parting sinfully with desire, fingers curling around the trailing sleeves of his robe as if they longed to be curling around the curve of your waist, the slope of your nape, instead, and a ridiculous shard of gleeful pleasure shifted in your belly in response. The obvious emotion etched on his face emboldened you, straightened your spine and lifted your head, and you curtsied as you held his gaze, sliding one foot behind your ankle and dipping your weight forward so that your upper half bent at the waist and your body lowered slightly.

 

“You summoned me, Majesty?” You husked, something far from sleep tinging your voice, hooding your lashes as you gazed up at him. You watched as the tantalizing chords of his strong throat worked and he swallowed, seeming to clear his throat fervently before regarding you once more.

 

“Indeed I did, _Peredhel_. I thank you and your Lady for your haste at this early hour, but it would seem that we need your counsel.” He finished, gesturing with a velvet draped arm to the small assembly of pale, nervous looking Elves clustered before him, their deep, ancient eyes surveying you with an undisguised measure of diffidence. Now you swallowed, your actions fueled by nerves rather than desire, and you nodded gently, canting your head towards the floor in an excuse to break their heavy gazes.

 

“Whatever you need, My Lord,” You said in a strong clear voice ringing with a confidence that you didn’t quite feel thrumming down in your bones, wishing fervently that you could be alone with the King once more, out of the company of his intimidating court.

 

“Come, join us.” The King said, offering a pale, expansive hand to you, fingers stretched to your form in wanting invitation, and you were glad to see the barely perceptible smile curling his lips as he gazed at you, the warm expression meeting his azure eyes. After a heartbeat you strode forwards, curving your fingers in his, delighting in the cool, sumptuous weight of his palm pressed against yours.

 

Your heart fluttered in your chest as he led you to the meeting of Elves, all dressed in their morning livery, as if they too had been roused from bed. Regrettably, Thranduil withdrew his hand from yours once you’d reached the company, though you felt a healthy measure of hesitation lilting in the action. As though he could sense that you needed the steady firmness of him near you he didn’t wander far from you, positioning you next to him at the head of the assembly.

 

“Now that all are accounted for, on to our business,” The King said, surveying the figures gathered about him with cool, collected celadon eyes, hands folded neatly in front of him, not a single gilded hair out of place.  You had to fight hard to bite back the sigh that threatened to rattle from behind your teeth at the regal lilt in his voice, at the surety banked there. “Smaug, the Last Great Fire Drake, The Dragon Dread, is dead.”

  
You felt the air in the room shift, pinpricking tingles skittering down your arms as if in nervous celebration, though you were quite unsure why. That name was unfamiliar to you, but you recognized the vast air of gravity that settled about the room at the King’s words, flashing in the slide of ancient, aphotic eyes and the quaver of primeval lips.

 

“But he was not vanquished without a fight, and as he was struck from the sky he fell upon the nearby settlement of Esgaroth, more commonly known as Lake-town, leveling many of its structures and leaving unknown numbers deceased.” The King flicked his gaze to each of those gathered around him, keen eyes assessing reactions, gauging reason, “Now, what I need from you, my trusted few, is sound advice. There will be a vacuum created by the death of that fell beast, Smaug. We may have a chance to reclaim what is rightfully ours, denied us by Thrór. What say you, my counselors - march our armies forth to Erebor, or let dragons lie dead in desolate earth?”

 

One by one, each member of the assembly spoke, imparting their wisdom, discussion strategies, occasionally bickering only to be silenced by the scopic upturned palm of their King. You listened intently as they spoke. Most of them advised that the King do nothing; other lands were not their concern, they had enough problems to deal with here in Mirkwood, though a select handful suggested otherwise.

 

“There is a great deal of wealth in that mountain, Your Majesty,” Said one Elf with glinting yellow hair and bright blue calculating eyes, his long fingers threading beneath the dark blue velvet sleeves of his tunic, “Surely the King under the Mountain wouldn’t miss a few choice Heirlooms of our House. You know of what I speak, My King. The Gems of Lasgalen.”

 

At the mention of those jewels the Kings pale gaze flew to your face, something almost anxious glinting in the depths of his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted the gems mentioned around you, as if he couldn’t decide whether that was wise.

 

“We could reclaim them, once and for all; seek reparations for the sad tidings of Thingol, rally our people under the great banner of Mirkwood. We might need such strength in the tenuous times to come.”

 

The King silenced him with a wave of his expansive hand, his eyes flashing with something that was equal parts anger and admonishment.

 

“And you, My Lady,” The King said, that familiar moniker spoken in front of a room full of Eldar making you gape momentarily, strange mystifying jewels effectively forgotten as you struggled to regain your composure, “What do you advise?”

 

You gulped heavily at his implorations, chancing a nervous glance at the numerous Elven faces that were fixed expectantly on you and immediately regretting it, before you focused back on the steady warmth banked in the King, Thranduil’s, pale keen eyes.

 

“Well,” You said, steeling yourself with a shaky breath, focusing steadfastly on the novel kindness in his features, the gentle unexpected upturn of his lips, “My Lord, in truth I think it is folly to lead your armies to the vestibule of death for the sake of a few glittering stones, though I say that never knowing the comfort of a Kingdom or the welcome of good citizens so such things may be beyond me. What I do know, Your Majesty, is that there is a people in need. Those pour souls of Lake-town are most likely starving, destitute and sorely wanting a kind hand to reach out with aid. You can provide that for them.” You paused, seeing the careful consideration glinting in his gaze, the twitching of his long fingers where they lay woven together about his waist, “You are wise and magnanimous, Majesty, and slow to change as well. Acting quickly could benefit all our people and unite the Kingdom of Mirkwood with a future Stronghold in the North. The strength of Men is not a trite thing, it is not easily stamped out by hardship and strife. These people could rebuild the city of Dale and prove paramount in the times ahead.”

 

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on your face for a few long moments, a healthy measure of impression banked in his eyes, something like approval flitting up the corners of his lips, glinting on his brow, before he canted his head towards you, thorned crown seated atop his head dipping sharply, and uttered his gratitude. “I thank you all for your words of wisdom in these times of peril. I will think on what I have heard and make a decision on the morrow. Be prepared for any course of action.”

 

You turned to go, eyes fixed unseeing on the retreating backs of the Eldar council that had assembled this morn, a strange, pleasant heat tingling in your limbs at the fact that the King had actually _listened_ to you, had headed your clumsy advice, but a strong, lithe hand curling around your wrist stopped you.

 

“Dine with me tonight, _Peredhel_?” Thranduil rasped in your ear, voice low and wanting, thrumming with a barely disguised hint of unfettered need, “I have many pressing matters to attend to this day, but I find I long for the pleasure of your company, the curve of your smile, the assiduity of your keen ears.” Stars _curse_ the wanting heat that bloomed low in your belly in response to that lilting voice of his, all velvet and sin as it slipped down the notches of your spine to curl fervently around your hips, pressing you into the warmth of his chest that stood stalwart at your back. You let your head cant back just a fraction, exposing the slim column of your neck to his warm breath and soft lips, pleased when you felt them ghost up the pound of your hammering pulse.

 

“Yes, Thranduil,” You sighed before you could stop yourself, lost in the heated spell of those long fingers that were curled around the curve of your wrist, the immense heat of his chest that sat at your back, the silken whisper of his mouth at your flesh.

 

“This pleases me,” He rumbled at your ear, voice all gravel and need, spearing heady tingles to slip along your skin before he was gone, footsteps trailing away, his balmy warmth suddenly absent from your body, leaving you reeling in the center of the expansive throne room. You glanced over your shoulder at him, seeing the contentious smirk curling his lips, feeling a tendril of playful mirth bloom in your chest as your eyes locked. His gaze danced with knowing heat, a thrumming glint that told you he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Unfazed, you grinned right back at him, and emboldening your hips to sway just a bit more and your shoulders to glide just right, you strode out of his hall, feeling the molten heat of his gaze intent on you the entire length of the journey.

 

You were breathless as you exited the doorway, grateful to find Iôlhel waiting diligently outside the door, eying a nearby Mirkwood guard with a hint of disdain and fiddling with the glinting ring that sat in the curve of her pale, pointed ear, a mark of her station. Upon seeing you her face brightened and she moved to you, meeting the extended hand you had outstretched with her own.

 

“So, what happened?” She questioned urgently as you started back towards your rooms, “What did His Majesty want?”

 

“Advice,” You informed her after a beat of incredulous silence, “He wanted my advice on whether or not his armies should move on the Kingdom of Erebor.” You glanced at your companion, noting the stark interested banked in her bronze eyes at the mention of that Mountain, hoping no doubt for a hint of adventure, “And you were right, my friend,” You informed her as you looped your elbow through hers, mirth making your actions bold, keeping your smile light, “He couldn’t keep his hands off of me.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

You tried valiantly not to fidget as you waited for the heavy wooden doors to open, but to your vast contempt you utterly failed.

 

The new dress you’d donned for your dinner with the King sat like a dream on your body, all pale lace and glinting beaded embroidered set in sprawling constellations and horoscopes that could be found in the night sky above, placed reverently along the bodice and skirts of your dress. You had become increasingly comfortable in the swirling dresses and fine clothing provided for you; it was unspeakably refreshing to not have to incessantly stink of sweat and heat and dirty woodland roads, let alone dress in silks and finery the likes of which you never could have imagined. As you’d glanced in the mirror just before the guard had come to lead you to the room in which the King would entertain your company you’d realized that Thranduil had gifted you with a dress of pure starlight, forged from the wheeling heavens above, and you’d been helpless not to smile and flush at the thought.

 

You started, pulled abruptly from your reverie when those thick apertures creaked open, moved by some unseen force, and a huge hall yawned steadily beyond the doorway, revealed incrementally to your gaping gaze. Lit candles flickered all about the room, winking at you playfully in the gentle gale blowing in from the openings set in ancient rock and wood high in the ceiling above. A long table sat in the center of the hall, heavily laden with waxen pillars, lit to create a soft glow about the room, and at the end of that table sat the King, dressed in a formal overtunic of some dark, glinting material that reminded you of onyx nights and starlit meanders, his pale brow unadorned and his face undeniably handsome.

 

It was aggravating how good he looked, perplexing how much you wanted to curl up in that inviting lap of his and nip at the tantalizing skin exposed by the collar of his robe. Those urges were not helped by the fact that you’d felt the thrumming closeness of his body wrapped around yours, the hot, urgent press of his huge palms, the silken whisper of that starlit hair slipping over your skin, or that you desperately wanted all of those things, and more, again.

 

Suddenly you got the sense that you were being properly courted, that this was a King’s try at wooing, and for the first time since your gilded, woodland dance so many days ago you didn’t feel like a prisoner within these walls.

 

“Welcome, My Lady.” Thranduil said, his voice low and as smooth as silk, his steps measured as he rose and strode to you, “I am pleased to see you in another one of my gifts.” He stood before you now, and you shivered to feel the welcome warmth of his body washing over you, carrying the tantalizing scents of ancient rain washed forests and the sultry spice of sap to your pliant senses, “You look radiant, My Lady,” He said softly as he took your hand in his and raised it to his lips, “Like a beam of pure starlight dancing on the forest floor. I see so little of it here in Mirkwood, and what I can spy is filtered through the trees, misty from behind the wide leaves. I quite like having a bit of it down here with me.” Your head was reeling as his lips brushed like a slip of velvet against your skin, tempting you, teasing you with vibrant tastes of what those sinful lips would feel like capturing your own pliant mouth. Sudden flashes of hot breath mingling, of fingers twining in starlit hair and muted groans falling on tangling tongues filled your senses and by the time he pulled back up to his full height you were all but panting before him.

 

“My Starling,” He murmured as if to himself, smiling warmly at you as he captured a silken lock of your hair in his slim fingers and let it slip through his upturned digits, that fervent shock of emotion displayed so clearly on his brow after so much icy chill still surprising you, though you were quickly becoming accustomed to its welcome presence.

 

Thankfully his charming assaults ceased, you really didn’t think your pour hammering heart could take much more, and he led you to the table, pulling out the carven chair sitting just next to his for you to settle into. With the clap of his hands dinner was served, wine was poured, and as he balanced his crimson filled goblet in one elegant hand he slid that cerulean gaze to you and said, “So, My Lady, if it pleases you, tell me everything about yourself.”

 

Hours trickled by, marked by the slow, gradual melting of wax and waning of wicks, by the decreasing level of wine glinting in the decanter set in the middle of the table and the thoroughly cleaned plates collected from your placemats, and by the sheer volume of Thranduil’s questions for you. When he said everything, he'd really meant it. You told him of your parents, or what you knew of them, of your many travels, of the things you’d seen in Bree and the Ranger’s you’d come across wandering in the North. To your deep surprise you even told him of your feelings about your Halfling blood, about the disdain you constantly faced, about the perils of revealing such a fact when you didn’t belong to a noble house.

 

And through it all he listened, pale eyes wide and attentive, warm smile quick to form on his tempting lips and his gentle responses always insightful, supportive. It seemed that every interaction you had with the Elvenking revealed a new facet of him, and if yesterday’s side had been lustful and warring, this side was smooth and suave, all husbandly concern and male attentiveness, and you found yourself helpless not to respond to it.

 

It was just so damned _nice_ to have someone listen to you, to have someone ask about your feelings, about your heart, and against your better judgement you told him what he asked for and more.

 

He surprised you when somewhere in the fourth hour of your dinner, just after you’d finished a jovial story about your run in with a Dwarf, a Hobbit and a very grumpy cat named Butter, he set his goblet down in a curled fist and rose from his seat, startling you, making you rise as well, worried suddenly that he’d spied an incoming threat.

 

“You are my wife reborn,” He said as he paced suddenly in front of the fine wood table, robes flaring about his hips, knee high boots clunking heartily with each measured step he took, “I am sure of it.”

 

Utterly shocked, feeling blindsided by the fervor of his statements, stark disappointment at his apparent sidetracked concentration sizzling in your chest, you immediately protested, “But I am no one, Your Majesty, I have not even a single coin to my name! How can I possibly be a Queen reborn?”

 

“ _The tombless shall be embodied, the fleshless made whole,”_ Thranduil started, finally stilling by the edge of the table, though his body was visibly wound up, thrumming with uncontained energy that he’d been tempering the entire night, his eyes intent and obsessive as they fixed on you. It took you the space of a heartbeat to recognize his words as the parting prophecy of the Seeress you’d met outside Gondor, “ _the spirit that wanders will once more find its soul._ I have long thought on these words, Starling, and I believe their meaning has finally been made known to me. I have listened carefully to all you have said tonight; you have a good and pure soul, and an honest heart. You are of Elven blood and you know suffering; it has given you compassion and a deep, abiding empathy. These are all traits that my wife possessed.” He stepped towards you then, his expansive hands coming to wrap heatedly around your  waist, giving you time to resist, but despite the madness of his words you deeply craved the closeness of his form, “Did you know that my wife was not buried. There is a marker of her likeness at the entrance to Mirkwood, but no grave. Does that not sound like the prophecy of your Seeress, little Starling?”

 

“Your Majesty-” You protested weakly, shaking your head in refusal even as his arms wrapped around you and you helplessly leaned into them.

 

“Thranduil,” He said gently, care and compassion banked in his tone, his eyes glimmering with emotion as they gazed down at you, “Please, My Lady, call me Thranduil.”

 

“Thranduil,” You began again after a pause in which you were momentarily lost within the roiling blue of his stormy eyes, “If I was your wife resurrected, wouldn’t I feel some trace of her within me? Wouldn’t I perceive her presence? I feel no traces of another in my soul, I feel only myself.”

 

“I am not aware of the intricacies of rebirth into this world, but is it unwise to assume that the soul would need to discover its past on its own, in order to shield the mind from a potentially shattering shock?” You paused then, reluctantly considering the slight wisdom in his statement, though doubt still lingered, heavy and cloying, about your brow. Encouraged by your sudden lack of protest, he continued.

 

“Can you honestly say to me that it is impossible? That you are completely certain it is not so?” His voice was urgent, his tone lilting and his clear eyes brimming with hope. You chewed your lip, considering the errant possibility despite yourself. It wasn’t like you knew much more than him about Elven rebirth, who was to say that you couldn’t be his dainty Queen come again? With him like this it was almost easy to imagine that you were equals, even as his sapphire eyes gleamed like gems from beneath hooded lids and his smooth, moon struck hair glinted like pale, spun gold against the dark brocade of his gem strung tunic.

 

“No, Thranduil, I cannot.” You replied after a slight hesitation, glancing down at the pearly swirl of your gown to avoid meeting his eyes, confident that the second you gazed into those churning orbs you’d be lost. He stepped closer to you, unwinding one brawny arm from your waist to curl his fingers under your chin, gently bringing your gaze back up to his, the emotion glinting there making your heart pound suddenly in your chest.

 

“Then perhaps, Starling, you just need a simple reminder of a familiar practice that I remember you enjoying quite immensely.” He said, his voice all smoke and formless ash, all molten fire and heated lust, punctuated beautifully by the silken slip of his lips against your own, soft and gentle, like the barest pause before a deep, satisfying breath.

 

For just one long, suspended moment you didn’t move, caught against him, bound by the steel band of his arm about your waist, by the immense heat of his chest, by the curve of his fingers around the line of your jaw and the sweet, sweet taste of his lips, too shocked to do anything but blink. Then deliciously, fervently you melted against his mouth, falling into him in one long, languorous slide of tongue and teeth and low needy moans.

 

And miraculously, he responded in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!  
> I know that I'm awful to leave it there, with just a kiss, but wasn't it a GREAT one? How did we feel about Thranduil in this chapter; kingly and collected in his court but wild and passionate when alone with the Reader? This chapter was a haul, there is a lot of forward plot motion that needed to happen, but I think it turned out really nice. Please leave me some comments if you agree (or don't agree xD)
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/160561531144/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-7-dusk-and-dawn
> 
> ALSO Important piece of business: I have an Idea, dangerous I know, but bear with me! This an Iôlhel heavy chapter (any thoughts on her btw; her characterization, her voice, anything?), and I enjoyed writing her so much that I thought, looking ahead to our next few chapters, why not write a spinoff fic featuring her and Bard?? 
> 
> And because I’m shameless, and I can't help myself, here is a preview (hint: thinly veiled bribe for comments and opinions! ;) ) of what that story could look like. This would be Bard’s possibly first impression/interaction with Iôlhel, if you’re interested PLEASE let me know and I will make that fic a reality!
> 
>  
> 
> Stars curse it all, there was just so much to do.
> 
> Bard thought wearily, already exhausted despite the early hour of the day. The sick and the crippled being housed in the ruins of the store rooms of Dale needed fresh water and bandages, commodities worth all the gold in that cursed mountain looming in the distance, the children required caretakers as their mothers and fathers were needed to fortify the once great Hall of Dale as a backup in case of emergencies, and search parties had to be organized to sweep the Long Lake for any straggling survivors. Once those tasks were finished flyers would be posted regarding any missing persons still unaccounted for and arrangements would be made for the burial of their valiant dead. 
> 
> Swiping a cloaked forearm across his sweating brow, Bard sighed, adjusting his grip on the brimming bucket of fresh water he’d fetched from the well, a small offering to their bustling head of medicine Bilga,a portly woman that carried her heft with agile grace as she moved from patient to patient, a kind smile quick to flash on her face and a booming voice, for all of her hard work over the course of the last few days. She had single handedly saved the lives of countless Lake-men; all the survivors of Lake-town owed her a great debt. Fetching this simple pail of liquid was the simplest show of gratitude that Bard could muster at the moment, but it would have to do.
> 
> Bard was still deeply entrenched in thoughts of shortening supplies and exactly how long well water would stay fresh when he caught sight of something like copper glinting in the sun, something like the roar of Dragonfire, and not a moment later he found himself barreling over a slim slip of a female, nearly knocking her over with the frantic motion of his gait. He managed to prevent her from toppling over with the respectful placement of his hand high on the curve of her waist, just under her shoulder blade, though the water sloshing in his pail didn’t respond well to the sudden ceasing of momentum and proceeded to splash all over her skirts, glinting on the cobalt of her dress like diamonds, like sapphires in the late summer sun.
> 
> “My deepest apologies, young maiden, I did not see you there and now my clumsy steps have now soiled your vestments. I am properly ashamed.”
> 
> She laughed as she looked up at him, the bright glint playing in her bronze eyes effectively stealing his breath away. She blinked at him, once, twice, thick auburn lashes fanning heavily against speckled, moon pale cheekbones, and Bard felt his heart stutter pitifully in his chest in response. 
> 
> Light freckles lay scattered about the apples of her cheeks, falling carelessly across the bridge of her small nose, as if the Star Kindler Herself had shook the heavens and supplanted the falling embers lovingly about her fair face. Her lips were nearly as red as her hair and twice as inviting, curving slowly into a gentle smile that had Bard’s own mouth curling in fervent, uncontrollable answer. If this comely maiden was kind enough to smile at him after he’d spilled nearly a whole pitcher of water on her fetching blue dress and dainty feet, how in all of Arda could he not smile back?
> 
> Never mind that his coat was ragged, stained and torn from Dragon fire and overuse, his thick, unkempt black hair tied back carelessly out of his weather weary face and bruising bags sat heavy and dark under his eyes, he would smile and bask in the pleasant glow of her presence, gaze into the deep copper of her eyes that made him feel lighter, unburdened, for just a moment longer. Then, and only then, would he resume his numerous, momentous tasks, first and foremost among them being the retrieving of a washrag for her to dry herself with.


	8. Heinous and Hallowed

You grimaced as you just barely managed to dodge the fresh spray of dark slick mud that came careening towards your leather encased legs, kicked up by the graceful, prancing hooves of the beautiful white war steed you were currently mounted on, a fine beast that had been very recently gifted to you directly from the Elvenking himself.

 

 

In the end he’d taken your advice above all the other sage pieces of wisdom offered to him by his circle of advisors, a fact that warmed the very depths of your pounding heart and set a permanent smile flitting about your lips, though in truth he had taken more than the space of a single night to reach his edict.

 

 

The fact that you'd spent a healthy measure of that night in his arms, lips locked heatedly against his, might have had something to do with  _that._

 

 

Despite the fervent urgency of your blissful kiss, no matter how often it sent heated warmth spearing in your belly or pleasant tingles tripping up your spine, you still felt very much like yourself. At the behest of such a toe curling, Arda shattering kiss you would have expected at least the faintest trace of his dutiful wife to appear at the edges of your mind if indeed she was there at all, flitting like smoke and mist about your thoughts and cloying your senses, but still you felt no others skulking about your being. You were very much yourself, and, you feared, falling very much in love with your King.

 

 

At that moment your snow-maned horse snorted and shook her great head, successfully breaking you from your unrequitedly amorous thoughts, her large curved ears twitching with anxious attention and her pounding hooves stilling in the trodden earth, though after a moment spent in careful study of your roiling green surroundings you determined the source of her ire to be the incessant insects flitting irritatingly about her haunches. You whispered words of comfort in her velvet ears and stroked the silk of her mane to quiet her whinnies, pleased when with a great huff and the sharp jolting of her momentous body, she was moving forward once more.

 

 

Despite the occasional errant mud spray that arched dangerously close to your new leather trews you were growing quite fond of the fair beast beneath you. She was spirited and sprightly, her inky black eyes glinting with something almost intelligent, something ancient and knowing that had you stepping easily up to her, sliding your hands about her thick neck with kinship in your touch. With Thranduil's help you had named her Calithilil, a name meaning Moonlit, though internally and with great affection you had begun to refer to her as Fastel or Shaggy Haired Female. When you mounted her strong, muscle corded back you got the sense that she was  _allowing_  you to ride upon her, as if she was doing you a favor instead of bending to your will, a fact which you greatly respected.

 

 

The road to Esgaroth was long and fraught with incessant halts and seemingly endless slow marching, though you could hardly complain of the view sprawling before your eyes as you journeyed. You’d never ventured this close to the eastern edges of Mirkwood in all your days as a vagabond, the risk of capture had been too great, but now that you were in fact protected by that very Kingdom you had feared you were free to let your gaze wander.

 

 

Wilderland was immense and green as far as the eye could see, with gentle rolling hills and seas of waving plains broken occasionally by the formidable outcrop of dark, jagged rock. These jutting stones didn’t seem like scars on the land but rather like gems scattered across its surface, jewels set in a vast grassy crown. Each frequent and lengthy pause in your long journey gave you ample time to explore, your eager steps taking you from meadow sprinkled steppe to sharp, craggy stone, and you loved every muddy bit of it.

 

 

Chancing a glance back at the familiar form of your friend and maidservant rocking unsteadily on her own wheat colored shaggy steed, a wide smile playing about her strawberry stained lips, her glinting honey eyes wide as they took in the beauty sprawling before her, you figured that Iôlhel did as well. As soon as you’d secured your presence on this venture with the company, no small feat given the resistance you’d been met with from the King, you’d insisted on Iôlhel’s presence as well, adamant that she was necessary for your comfort and amiability, though in truth you knew well of the maidens desire to leave Mirkwood, to see this wide world of theirs and after all the kinship she’d provided you you’d wanted to do something nice for her. Besides, it was lovely to have her here.

 

 

You smiled back at her and met the delighted bronze gleam of her eyes, thinking that just now, with the strong fading sun playing in her hair, making it shine like fire, gleam like polished amber, she looked every measure as lovely as you knew her to be in her heart. You grinned at each other, your friendship flashing in the haste of your smiles and the length that they remained on your lips, in the warmth blooming on your cheeks, and you pointed eagerly to the golden sun dropping steadily in the sky, signaling that it would be glorious when it set. She nodded poignantly, her copper hair slipping over her cobalt clothed shoulders as she did, revealing the sharp point of one alabaster, foliate ear.

 

 

You were just thinking, perhaps for the first time in your life, that you might like to have ears such as that, that you would be glad to see them gracing the joyful faces of your children, when the standard bearer marching just behind the King called for a halt of the company, passing the message like a rippling wave down the hundreds of rows of armored Elves marching behind you, sparing you from those dangerous thoughts of pointy eared Halfling babes and royal bloodlines.

 

 

You sighed softly then, knowing what awaited you in mere minutes, carefully guidingCalithilil to a stop and running a gentle hand over the silvery down just above her glossy ivory mane in a placating gesture. She snorted, as if protesting the frequent stops, as if aching to prove that she had the resilience to trot for miles, before she spotted a particularly sweet patch of grass undisturbed by the road and meandered over to nibble at it. You slid from the lofty perch of her muscled back and patted her rump, stretching out your sore muscles in preparation, your eyes already scanning for the tent that would be set up for the silver haired Monarch of Mirkwood, for at each stop along the path you would inevitably be called to the King for your Sindarin lessons.

 

 

After gifting you with the trusty war steed snacking happily on the dandelions growing proudly by the wearied path the King had smiled at you warmly, the heated scents of fresh hay and woody oats wafting from the stables you had been standing in mixing stunningly with the sultry sap that was all him, all Thranduil, his eyes glinting like moonlight as he’d slipped a strand of your thick hair behind your daintily pointed ear, his fingers stroking the gentle curve of the appendage as he spoke those exhilarating words still ringing in your head.

 

_“If you are to accompany me to the Lonely Mountain you must become familiar with the commands that I give, and heed them without question. That means you must learn Elvish, Starling.”_

 

 

You’d reeled from shock and delight then, pleased to have thoroughly convinced him that you should join the burgeoning company marching East, though some of that surprise had worn off as the lessons progressed, melting steadily into festering annoyance. With every word he taught you he seemed to grow more convinced that at any moment you’d just evaporate into the late summer air and his precious, dainty wife would appear in your place. Just the other day he’d taught you the Sindarin word for lover,  _melethril,_ and you swear, as you’d said the noun and inevitably had remained yourself, disappointment had flashed in the King’s rain washed celadon eyes, stark and biting like the icy cut of a knife against your flesh.

 

 

You’d halted the lesson then, complaining of a pounding headache and fatigue from the road, unable to admit to him that in truth you had been trying valiantly to fight back the tears stinging like fire in your eyes, heart bruised and hurting by his obvious disdain for you and his fervent hope that his lovely starlit wife would take your place at his side.

 

You waved off the blue liveried page that came to collect you, wearily gesturing your intent to proceed to the gilded billowing tent already set up at the head of the company, leaving him to tend to his other duties. Confident that Calithilil wouldn’t wander too far, indeed her ashen head had perked up at hearing your retreating footsteps and her inky black eyes glimmered with understanding, you began towards the Kings tent, steps uncharacteristically leaden as you approached, attention fixed anywhere but the heartache that awaited you.

 

You’d been given traveling vestments consisting of well-made leather trews and a breathable tunic of some fine durable material to sit under the darkly colored cloak billowing about your calves as well as a small suit of armor for your journey, though that deadly mail sat protected in the small cart being toted behind Iôlhel, along with your sturdy daggers and the newly forged short sword you’d been practicing your combat with. They were weapons of war that the King had made clear he didn’t want you to use unless borne out of the direst necessity, and the keenness of his concern did help to stem the roiling of your heart somewhat, though you couldn’t help wondering just who he was protecting; you or the glimmering promise of his starlit wife he believed to be banked within you?

 

 

With that thought ringing in your head you dipped into the silken flaps of the King’s shaded tent, mildly impressed by the haste with which the Elven servants had set up the structure. You entered in the midst of a conversation between the King and one of his advisors, the blond Elf with the blue calculating eyes that had suggested the launching of this very army in search of a few shiny baubles, if you remembered correctly. As you snagged the tail end of the advisors sentence you gathered that those infernal gems were the topic of conversation once more.

 

 

“-would be quite fortuitous if we could regain the heirlooms without spilling a drop of our peoples blood, though I think I would be correct in assuming that Your Majesty would be ready and willing to go to any length to secure the Gems of Lasgalen, precious as they are.”

 

 

Two sets of starry eyes flicked to you as you entered, and despite the venom in the Eldar’s gaze as he regarded you, the disdain banked there making nervous chills skitter down your spine, you straightened your shoulders and clasped your hands about your waist, confident that you had just as much right to be here as he did.

 

 

“Do not let me interrupt,” You intoned, tucking yourself out of the breezy causeway in case of any other entering figures, gaze cool and undisturbed, almost regal as it fixed on him, “But I do have an engagement with his Majesty.”

 

 

A pleased smile flitted about the Kings lips then, and despite the residual anger and hurt roiling in your belly you felt a spear of warmth bloom deep in your chest in response. Your eyes met his, which gleamed like glacial spires, like rain swept shores, and you shared just the barest hint of a smile before he turned to his pale haired advisor.

 

 

“We will discuss this matter at a later time, Faendaer,” Thranduil said, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the grim thin line that the other Elf’s mouth was set in, “My Lady is quite right, we have an engagement.” With a slightly huffed bow, the bright flash of angry blue eyes slicing in your direction, and a sudden flurry of pale velvet robes and gleaming golden hair the pompous advisor was gone, leaving you blissfully alone with the King.

 

 

You bowed low, reveling in the chance to practice your curtsies, finding they came easier with steady rehearsal, and greeted him formally, “Your Majesty.” The gentle whisper of embroidered brocade slipping over bent wheat grass rasped softly as he neared you, and your heart suddenly pounded in your chest as his cool lithe fingers slipped under your chin to raise your downturned face up to his.

 

 

“I have told you, Starling,” He said, his immense form looming over you, enfolding you, his celadon eyes soft and his tone lilting as his fingers curved around the line of your jaw, cupping your face with immense tenderness, “To you I am Thranduil.” His words were punctuated by the barest brush of his silken lips against yours, soft as the plush whisper of velvet and thrumming with deep emotion, so stark that it made tears prick hotly in your eyes. You furiously batted back the venomous doubts that roiled in the back of your mind beneath the molten warmth of his kiss, splitting the serene happiness of the moment, hissing questions that you didn’t want to answer, questions like  _is he kissing you, or his dead wife?_

 

 

Thankfully you were spared from having to combat those negative thoughts further when he pulled away, taking your hand in his to lead you to the sturdy wooden table set a few paces away, already strewn with the evidence of your ongoing lessons. Various papers, upon which you’d scratched your clumsy attempts at Sindarin spelling, were strewn across the oiled surface, scattered next to a small ornate well of glossy black ink and several spotted brown feather quills.

 

 

As you gingerly took a seat you surveyed the various parchments spread before you, roaming your gaze over the many fragmental phrases and full words you’d tediously spelled out and memorized. Verbs like _Ribo_ , meaning Rush, and _Berio_ , meaning Protect leaped out at your gaze like the fear filled rabbit fleeing from the maw of the hungry wolf while nouns like _Thangail,_ or Shield-Fence, slipped like steel against your temples, conjuring images of interlocking metal and gritted teeth.

 

 

“I have taught you many words of war thus far, but I thought I might teach you something a measure more pleasant this day,” Thranduil said as he slipped lithe, pale fingers over gritty paper, his celadon eyes watching you closely, something uncharacteristically calculated gleaming in his gaze as he sat beside you, quill in hand, “It is the Sindarin word for the time we are about to enter, though in our tongue the name means ‘season of fading.’  _Firith_ , my Starling. That means Autumn.”

 

 

Those pale fingers of his were fiddling with the downy plumage of the feathered quill balanced in his hand, the action mesmerizing and strangely disquieting and you tensed in anticipation, hating how expectantly he gazed at you, how hopeful the quirk of his tempting lips was and how brightly his pallid eyes gleamed. You realized then that he was chasing phantoms, grasping at falling rain, clutching at the ebbing tides here with you. He fevered for someone he would never again see, courted a woman that was long gone, a woman that you could never be.

 

 

“It was the favorite season of-“So help you _Ilúvatar_ _,_ if this handsome, clueless Elf King mentioned his dead wife _one more time_ -

 

 

“My wife.”

 

 

Something snapped in you then, the fragile tendrils of polite courtship and barely fettered hurt savagely cut by the crude, clumsy hammer of hopeful blindness. Your vision blurred and you tasted copper and salt upon your fallow tongue, something hot and panicky bubbling urgently in your chest, clenching your fists and filling your limbs with the need to move, to flee.

 

 

“Stop!” You cried abruptly, cutting him off, throwing up your hands as you rose from the parchment laden table, running your hands exasperatedly through your plaited hair, “Just stop!” You knew you were yelling, that it was highly inappropriate, but you just couldn’t stop yourself.

 

 

“What is wrong,  _Peredhel_?” Thranduil questioned, _real_ curiosity thrumming in his gaze, as if he was truly unaware of what he could have possibly done to upset you, as if he wanted to make it _better_. For half of a heartbeat you were tempted to let him, but then you reminded yourself that he’d be helping the woman that he had deluded himself into thinking was his wife, not you, not really.

 

 

“It is all too much! The presents, the fine wines, the longing looks, the Elvish!” You knew you were pushing your luck here but you just couldn’t stem the quaver of your shaky voice, the wildness glazing your eyes. Would it strike you dead if someone appreciated you for who you are, if someone accepted everything about you, no caveats or conditions? You suspected you might keel over dead from the pure shock of it if that ever truly happened.

 

 

You strode about the tent, anger and soul-deep pain making your voice tremble pitifully, much to your growing disdain and embarrassment, and you knew that you couldn’t be around him then, no matter how stars cursedly hurt he looked as he gazed at you or how his fingers twitched towards you, as if seeking to soothe you, to smooth over your temples and trace the shell of your ear as they had so many times before. You turned at the flap of the tent and met the Elvenking’s gaze unflinchingly, working hard to ignore the sharp tinge of hurt glinting in his celadon eyes, a glaze shining in them that looked suspiciously like the precursor to tears.

 

 

“I am not your wife, Thranduil. I feel no traces of her within me, not after nostalgic candlelit dinners, pretty gifts or Elvish lessons, not even after a searing kiss, though I gladly admit that I enjoyed it all the same. I am not her, nor will I ever be.” Words were spilling from your lips almost as quickly the as tears that tripped down your cheeks, falling before you could stop them, pain intoning the words and deeds that you knew you’d regret fiercely on the morrow. And yet, despite everything this was the closest you’d ever been to him, the farthest that you’d seen the stony barriers around his heart crumble, and damn if you didn’t love the sight that those tumbling walls afforded you. “You deserve better than a foolhardy, half-recognized dream. And in all honesty, as do I.”

 

 

You couldn’t hear him calling for you above the roaring in your ears, above the wetness that spilled down your cheeks like fire and the pain ripping fiercely through your chest, and you weren’t totally sure you’d have stopped even if you had. You stumbled hurriedly past gawking guards and curious servants without heed, tripping over the uneven ground to your steed, your trusty Calithilil who stood a few paces away from the main group, out of earshot from the camp and the well out of the sight of that infernal tent holding your vexing, infuriating, heartbreaking King. Your horse whinnied when you reached out to her, shaking hands clinging onto soft spotted fur as though without that downy grip your legs would give out beneath you. As if sensing your disquiet the beast nuzzled your side with the velvet slide of her nose, huffing warm air onto your shaky skin and snorting gently. You raised shuddering fingers to play in the soft hair falling over her forehead, twining the smooth strands through your fingers in a soothing motion. Your tears splashed hot and hurried onto her coat but she paid them no mind, just chewed her flowers and bumped her nose against your ribs gently.

 

You briefly wondered if Thranduil would follow you, and, cursing the valiant hopeful part of you that railed for his return, for his warmth, the logic fueled part of you knew it was better that he stay away. Besides, you’d vaguely registered a lengthy line of nobles and court members waiting to speak with him stretching out past his tent nearly to the road as you’d made your hasty exit, he’d no doubt be occupied for several hours. Groaning, burrowing your face deeper into the silk of Calithilil’s fur, the full weight of your actions began to dawn on you. You had _yelled_ at him, a Monarch, a King, surely there would be repercussions for that. Not to mention that _look_ etched on his handsome features, the reeling, gaping one that told you you’d just ripped out his heart and crushed it before his eyes.

 

 

In all fairness, he’d done the very same to you first.

 

 

“My Lady,” A soft familiar voice intoned near you, and in recognition fueled action you hiccupped pitifully and raised your face to see Iôlhel nearing you, “I saw you run out of the Kings tent, I was afraid something might have happened. Are you alright?”

 

 

Words failing you, you shook your head vigorously, errant strands of hair escaping from the plait your mane was haphazardly secured in to stick aggravatingly to your tear stained cheeks, breath wobbling as you gasped urgently for air.

 

 

“My Lady,” Iôlhel huffed, her brow furrowed with obvious concern and her voice brimming with sympathy as she opened her arms, allowing you to fall into her. You did so shamelessly, immeasurably grateful for the shoulder she provided for you, crying loudly into the soft wool of her dress. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

 

 

You shook your head again, the comfort of your friend’s embrace allowing some measure of strength to return to your voice, “The hurt is still too near, my dear Iôlhel.” She nodded vehemently in understanding, her steady nimble hands stroking the tangled slip of your hair as she hugged you, the simple motion indescribably soothing.

 

 

“Some hot food and a good night’s sleep will do you wonders, My Lady. Things will look different on the ‘morrow, they always do.” You had to smile at the cheer in her voice, wondering absently how in all of Arda she kept her spirits up.

 

 

As you raised your brow from Iôlhel’s soft shoulder and spied the sight stretching at her back, the backdrop behind the bustling Elven camp, you gasped, stilling beneath the shadow of the single solitary peak soaring about the rocky ground below it, brilliant in the light of the fading sun.

 

 

“What is that?” You asked your friend, your sorrow momentarily forgotten in favor of awestruck reverence and wonder at the soaring mountain stretching like a beacon in the fading sun, like a hand raised to the heavens.

 

 

“That, My Lady,” Iôlhel replied, mirth and a healthy measure of awe coloring her own tone as she stretched to look behind, dimples appearing stark on her cheeks as she smiled, “is the Kingdom of Erebor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!  
> And with that, we arrive at Erebor! The events from now on will take place after the devastation of Lake-town and before the Battle. That means we'll meet Lake-towners in the next chapter, who else is excited? *vigorously raises hand* I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this update, they should be coming faster now that I have some down time between the semester ending and the start of my new job, though I am very sorry to leave it on such a gloomy note :( Though fear not, they will reconcile and it will be Epic. Our Elvenking should really get hip on current courtship practices though, SO not cool to incessantly obsess over an ex, tsk tsk. ;) Anywho, please let me know how you feel about this chapter, I LOVE your feedback!
> 
> P.S. I need your help deciding something real quick, everyone! I have a few stray ideas that never made their way into the chapters, such as the scene where the reader receivers her precious horse from Thranduil (and meets his Elk!) and a few others (Sexy Time With Sindarin, anyone?) and I'd love to write them up to be around 2,000 words. The issue is where to post them and if you are interested in reading them. I can stick them as additional chapters after the Epilogue (Oh yeah, there's gonna be an Epilogue!) or I can post them as their own fics and start a "Series", into which I'll also put the Iôlhel/Bard spinoff as well. I'm leaning towards this latter option, but do you have a preference? Let me know! <3
> 
> Mood Board: http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/160637055474/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-8-heinous-and
> 
> ALSO, because I'm super excited about this Iôlhel/Bard spinoff (seriously you guys, it's gonna be AMAZING, there's skinny dipping! *squealing*) and I can't stop writing little scenes for it, IF you want I'll post a little mini mood board on here complete with a 1,000 word blurb that I whipped up below, but ONLY if you want it! Let me know if this is something you're interested in! Love you all! <3


	9. Ruined and Remade

Thranduil really wasn’t paying attention to the dark haired, weary eyed human man speaking urgently to him at the present, despite the biting exigency, the anxious unease marring his low, thrumming voice.

 

Thranduil knew that he should have been, every so often he’d catch snippets of important and boring words like “ _diplomacy_ ” and “ _dire_ ” and even the dreaded “ _obligation”_ , biting at his temples, gnawing incessantly at him, as if Thranduil didn’t know well enough his damned responsibilities as Elvenking. Rolling his eyes with more malevolence than necessary, he shifted the reins of his Great Elk, Noroth, who had begun to chuff slightly with burgeoning agitation, no doubt anxious to rest his road weary muscles, swinging the huge shaggy beast to face the reluctantly patrician human more fully.

 

“-- can reason with them, I am sure of it.” Thranduil caught the tail end of the dark haired Bowman’s urgent plea, that strange mention of reasoning and logic striking a chord of dissonant amusement in the Elf’s broad, thickly armored chest. The mortal meant to try to talk sense into a group of _Gonnhirrim_? The Stunted People, the Masters of Stone, greedy and shortsighted in their blindness, incessant in their endless search for wealth, could not be reasoned with; Thranduil’s people knew this well. The very notion was laughably ludicrous, but as Thranduil slid his icy gaze to the kind hazel eyes of the stately human staring up at him he saw no hint of a jest on that weathered yet regal face.

 

“As I have already stated, that vain hope is folly.” Thranduil’s tone was cold and biting, even to his own ears, but despite the spear of regret that simmered foreign and uncharacteristic in his breast at that unintended sharpness he stood by his statements. It was truly unwise to assume that the _Gonnhirrim_ would be anything but mistrusting and deceitful towards outsiders, even though everything that both the Elves and the Humans demanded was what was rightfully theirs to begin with.

 

Though in truth Thranduil thought more of his claim on the Gems of Lasgalen than the mortals hastily made, clumsily intoned verbal treaty for an unspecified amount of gold in exchange for quite specific and painfully completed services, no matter how dire their current circumstances were. Thranduil had paid the price for his bounty, as had his forbears; some in blood, some in coin, and he wanted his due. He deserved it. Even more so now that the possibility of a mate hung in the balance.

 

At the thought of his stars-fated match, of _you_ , Thranduil grimaced deeper, his patience with the mortal man at his side whittling further, his beset ire deepening. Since that day in his tent when you’d roiled and raged, tears pricking harrowingly in your lovely eyes, an unsteady quaver settling about your tempting mouth, he hadn’t spoken to you, he hadn’t as much as seen you, though he could somehow sense that you hadn’t abandoned him completely. His pages and servants had reported sightings of you on the fringes of the caravan as they’d completed the journey to Esgaroth, and now that his company was settled just outside the desolated Dale, those reports stated that you’d taken to exploring the ruins of the once magnificent city.

 

They pained him, those enraged, irascible words you’d thrown at him earlier. They cut him to the core, slicing through fragile flesh and aching sinew to lay bare his lovesick heart, beating wearily on, as it had for so long. Though now, the source of its pain was a mere jaunt away instead of in hallowed Halls where he couldn’t follow, so why couldn’t he bring himself to go to you now? Pride perhaps, or more accurately misery tinged shame.  After all, for all the caustic bite of your words, something in his fearful, rapidly thawing heart could admit that you were right.

 

_I am not your wife, Thranduil. I feel no traces of her within me, not after nostalgic candlelit dinners, pretty gifts or Elvish lessons, not even after a searing kiss, though I gladly admit that I enjoyed it all the same. I am not her, nor will I ever be._

 

So many emotions, the likes of which he’d long banished from his breast, came flooding back to him in the interim that those wrenching, agonizing words forced upon him. An ancient, soul deep ache for his wife, long standing in his heart but strangely fading from prominence with each twinging beat of the valiant appendage.  A vast vein of sorrow for the pain he’d caused you, tinged heartily by lashing shame that it had been his actions that had sparked the tears that glinted like bright diamonds to fall down your cheeks, that had wrought your fair brow to furrow and your comely voice to shake. A healthy measure of frustration at the tense, fettered state of your relationship, strained and wrecked as it was, overlaid with another layer of guilt, just to top it off. A molten cord of want at the fact that you’d craved his kiss, of amazement and delight that you’d enjoyed it, the emotion full and thrumming with purely male pride and prowess. And over it all, as delicate as a rose and many, many times more beautiful than any bloom, was something that Thranduil intensely suspected was love, saccharine and soft as a sunrise, pleasant and warm as a late spring morning and as fragile as an infants fevered slumber. It roiled in his chest, coiling gleefully around heart, laying comfortably in the shiver that tripped down his spine at the mention of your name, in the urgent hope that bloomed achy and strong in his chest when he thought he spied the shine of your hair moving towards him, in the poignant absence he felt as keenly as a wound punched through his chest at your disappearance from his side.

 

His suspicions about the truth of that rosy emotion that played wantonly within him only deepened when he found himself missing you, not just your form and face, but the small things about you. He missed the way you’d clap with delight when you correctly remembered the translation for a Sindarin word, your lofty cheekbones flushing a pleased, pretty pink and your comely face turning inevitably towards him for a dose of reciprocated delight; the way that a gentle smile would curve your soft tempting lips when you met his eyes across a room, that charming expression unbearably tentative and thrumming with gentle grace, as if you were still pleasantly surprised that he smiled back at you, as he always inevitably did. He missed the scent of you that seemed to eternally cling to his robe, his hair, his skin, clean and fresh, lilting with human spice and something all female, all delicate and strong, like a wire made of pure platinum or a thin sheet of glinting _mithril_. He even missed the rage in your luminous eyes, the _feeling_ banked there, the unfettered emotion roiling in your gaze, for as long as it was present, as long as you _felt_ , you were not lost to him.

 

In addition, adding fuel to the raging fire that roared in his chest for you, was the fact that the more that his heart awakened the more it felt different in his breast. Not wrong, per se, just misplaced. As if it didn’t quite fit in his chest anymore, as if in its slumber its ownership had transferred somehow, control and claim lying not with him but moving to someone else. It was as if it didn’t belong to him anymore.

 

  
Thranduil realized with a deep start, and an even deeper sense of innate rightness, that it belonged to you now. To you of Halfing blood, bold reckless rage, incessantly honest opinions and horrid court manners. And if you wanted it, if you asked it of him, he would strip it bare from his beating chest and present it to you on bended knee without hesitation.

 

Feeling almost giddy with fresh revelation, searching through dusty memories from many moons past, smiling to himself with lovesick glee, Thranduil admitted that it was indescribably _good_ to have such a feeling once more, to not slog through dull wine-fueled monotony only to arrive safely as his life’s end, but to have feeling, to have love, to have sorrow and strife and everything in between, and to have it with you.

 

That is, if you would still have him in return.

 

“Even so, we will never know if we do not try.” Bard’s highly unwelcome voice cut through the fervent love-tinged din that roared in his mind, crashed against his chest and sparked hotly in his heart. Thranduil has to work hard to suppress a deeply annoyed groan at the interruption of his internal revelations, as sweet and sudden as they were and reluctant as he was to return to his present political predicament.

 

After a healthy pause in which Thranduil ensured that his voice would not sound too caustic, he replied, “So be it. Try it your way, Bowman. But be warned, if you fail we will resort to other means.”

 

“Means of war?” Bard replied, disapproval and dismay laden heavy in his dark eyes, his gaze suddenly appearing regal, Kingly with intent, and Thranduil momentarily perceived him as an equal in this.

 

“Undoubtedly,” Thranduil replied, a humorless smile flitting about his lips, twisting his expression into one of weary, battle won forethought, “It is, after all, what Dwarves understand best.”

 

Thranduil didn’t have to keep his gaze on the human to sense the displeasure that deepened on the mortals face, as staunch and objectionable as his expression was. The mortal was a new leader, bloated with notions of grandeur and noble intentions for diplomacy, but soon he would learn the ways of the Dwarves; of their greed and corruption of heart, of their stubbornness and steadfast, unchanging pride, of their unflinching brutality in war. He would either learn now, with words of hard won wisdom ringing in his ears, or after, when he sent his men valiantly into negotiations and they died bloody and slow at his feet, trying to protect a will that would never come to fruition. As much as he might want to mold others into what he wanted them to be, into his vision of correctness, they will always remain themselves, with or without his prodding and pushing.

  
A flash of intuition, of razor sharp knowledge sparked in Thranduil’s mind then, sharp and clear, like a bolt of lightning striking sand, but it faded too quickly for him to register its direction or purpose.

 

Watching the slowly retreating form of the human, noting the way the hopeful tilt of his shoulders and high hold of his head flashed as prominent as a Monarch’s banner waving in the wind, Thranduil turned his thoughts to you and to the purpose for his presence here. He wanted the Gems, that much was still true, but as Thranduil pondered them an idea began to form in the reaches of his mind, roiling in the depths of his soul, and the purpose of their claiming began to shift.

 

If Thranduil could retrieve the stones, if he tore that mountain apart in search of them, brought low the halls of Erebor and ignored their vast glittering hills of gold in favor of starlit stones of pure, bright light, if he did it all for you, then perhaps you would see the true depths of his emotion. He would claim the heirlooms of his people for you, then he would come to you on his knees, glittering Gems in hand, apologies on his lips and sweet, saccharine words in the air and you would know of his love, of his devotion, of his utter sincere regret at hurting you. With those Gems he would convince you that his heart was truly and utterly yours, and no one else’s

 

Of that he was sure.

 

* * *

 

Iôlhel gulped heavily as she approached the billowing gold canvas of the King’s tent, sweat pooling nervously on her palms and an anxious quaver skittering icily down her spine, those small reactions belaying the abysmal depths of her nervousness. The reason behind her visit was what made her so wary, for she came to the King’s tent of her own volition, uninvited and most likely unwanted. What she intended to say to His Highness could get her into serious, life threatening trouble, but nonetheless it needed to be urgently addressed.

  
You had been in noticeably sour spirits since your fight with the King, a scowl often curving your mouth and a hard shine to the normally mirthful depths of your eyes. Iôlhel had thought that it would be better now that you’d stopped crying, that the telltale puffy redness around your eyes had disappeared, but the hardness that had grown in place of the wounds her King had caused, the staunch coldness there now, was somehow infinitely worse.

 

The only things that could cheer you were Iôlhel’s company, mostly because she steered carefully clear of any topics relating to a certain tall, handsome, blonde haired Monarch, and the companionship of your steed, Calithilil. You’d brushed the war horses’ mane until it shone like a sheet of pure silver in the weak late summer sun, and though it was clear that the beast was formidable, Iôlhel did fear that it was becoming far too spoiled under your care. No matter though, as long as it brought a smile to her mistresses too often frowning face she was satisfied.

  
At her approach the dual guards posed at the canvas’s entrance stood taller, held their imposing spears more firmly, as if they were ready to run her through in response to the slightest nod, the smallest inclination from their King. The King who was currently entertaining one dark haired, regal eyed mortal that Iôlhel recognized with a start from an earlier run in that had occured while she’d been exploring the ruins of Dale. Her cheeks flushed hotly to see him here so unexpectedly, something like nervous excitement flitting urgently in her belly to the sight of that familiar long hair and broad shoulders, those kind eyes slightly greener and much more aphotic than she’d remembered. When he turned towards the flurry of movement caused by her appearance in the entryway something positively molten and thrumming with vibrant heat sparked low in her belly, shooting up her chest to settle itself into a firm lump in her throat. She felt her eyes widen, her lips parting, her breaths shallowing, and judging by the mirroring look spanning his handsome face he was just as surprised to see her.

 

For a moment Iôlhel was so thoroughly lost in hands calloused and strong from countless years of working pulleys and ropes and oars, in broad, sturdy shoulders sloping gracefully under waves of dark, full hair, bound out of the way of weathered but kind features, in a face that told of hardships and strife, of joys sweet and woes terribly bitter, and in that instance Iôlhel really didn’t think she’d ever seen a single being so full of life, of stories and mysteries deep, that she completely and utterly forgot her task here. And then the King cleared his throat, a simple but effective tool to snap her attention away from eyes like churning, moonlit sea foam and strong arms that looked all too inviting, and Iôlhel blushed all over again with fresh embarrassment.

 

“I’m sorry My Lord,” Iôlhel said, bowing her head in greeting to her King, her hands clasping nervously about her back, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The temptation to peek up at the mortal through her lashes was too tempting to resist, and something like molten pleasure speared in her chest to find his eyes fixed on her raptly. The small smile she flashed him was answered in the upturn of his lips and the friendly glint in his deep eyes, and a ridiculous shard of warmth permeated her chest in response.

 

“We were just finished, actually.” The King said, waving a hand dismissively in the human’s direction, obviously signaling for him to take his leave, and Iôlhel didn’t miss the flash of disdain that skittered across the mortal’s features in response. “Do keep me updated on the results of your efforts, Bard.”

 

 _Bard_ , the name shivered down Iôlhel’s spine, a whisper of memory, a sliver of intrigue, and she smiled to remember her hasty, clumsy introduction to the human from earlier. A distracted spill of clear crisp well water, droplets clinging to the cobalt of her dress like sapphires, slipping on her skin like diamonds, a warm smile offered in a dire moment of embarrassment, and gentle words affectionately bestowed. The corners of her lips quirked at the recollection, and before Iôlhel could even wonder if he remembered her he was inclining his head towards her and murmuring a hasty but heartfelt, _My Lady_ , to her before taking his leave of the tent.

_My Lady._

No one had ever called her that before. She couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at the corners of her lips at that, and suddenly she fervently wished that she would see that mysterious man, Bard, again.

 

“State your business here, _bŷrath_.” The King commanded, voice low and tinged with a confident bite that she was sure hadn’t been there that morning, pulling her firmly and sudden back to the present, to her task. She gulped heavily before steeling her spine, wishing fervently for fortitude she didn’t quite possess before she opened her mouth to reply.

 

“I am here to discuss my mistress.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The king requests your presence.”

 

  
You didn’t have to strain to ascertain the identity of the Silvan Elf that spoke to you now; you recognized the silver ring of the pages voice too well. You’d been doing this dance for some time now over the course of your journey from Mirkwood to Dale - he’d request your presence for the King, you’d accept, then he’d saunter off to take care of his other court duties. The fact that you hadn’t seen him, hadn’t been called to the King since that day in his tent had sat like a stone in your gut, had lent water to your streaming tears, had ripped open the bleeding flesh of your heart, had hunched your shoulders and faltered your step. But no longer; this time your ascent would not be so easily obtained, not after what had happened in the King’ tent. Not after the pain he’d caused you.

 

 

“I decline," you replied with a healthy measure of dismissal, not looking up from the blade you lovingly sharpened, the cool slip of hardware poised carefully on your knees as you spoke, the slide of a whetstone singing across polished metal perhaps the sweetest thing you had ever heard.

 

 

“M-My Lady!” The poor page stammered, clearly taken aback by your insubordination and quite unsure of how to proceed, “You cannot refuse his Majesty-"

 

 

“I believe I just did," you replied as you glanced up from the sturdy sword balanced in your lap to meet the panicked gaze of the aghast brunette Elf gaping at you, the poignant reminder that his presence made flare to life within you, and the racking pain that flooded your chest just after, heartily solidifying your indignant response, " Tell him my answer. I will not be collected and corralled like chattel. He may seek me out if he so wishes but I am busy at the present."

 

 

“B-But My Lady-” The Elf began before you cut him off with a hand thrumming with a surprisingly regal grace and poise despite the fact that you were seated on a crumbling stone that looked  to have been part of a bubbling fountain settled in the heart of the desolate city of Dale.

 

 

“I am sorry that this difficult task has fallen to you, as any unresolved business between the King and I is ours and ours alone, but those facts do not dissuade me. My answer remains the same.” Sympathy colored your tone, softening the molten anger intoning your words, lending them an appropriately compassionate ring, “I do apologize if my stubbornness causes you grief, but all the same you may tell the King that if he wishes to find me I shall be here. Otherwise, I am sure he can find something else to occupy his time with.”

 

  
You didn’t look up again as you continued working on your sword, honing the blades edge, keening it to lethal sharpness. After a moment of stunned silence you perceived the page leaving, booted feet quiet over the blanket of ancient ash and packed dirt that covered Dale’s streets, his steps slow and unsure, no doubt addled by shock. You felt a momentary twinge of regret at the ire in your tone, of guilt for the venom with which you’d spoken to the page, but then you remembered who that message that he bore had come from, and you felt a little better for the caustic bite of your tongue.

 

 

 _Wet, slide, repeat. Wet, slide, repeat._ You let the soothing motions calm your roaring heart, fervent as it was to rage, to scream and cry out its displeasure, but you didn’t let it. You couldn’t focus on the pain anymore, on the aching of your soul, the weeping of your heart; you feared you just didn’t have it in you.

 

 

The simple repetitive task was exactly what you needed at the present, both for comfort of mind and for the fact that very soon your weapons would be put to use. Dawn would be breaking in a few hours, and with it came the possibility of a full scale war with the Dwarves of Erebor if the negotiations planned went sour, as many suspected they would.

 

 

You had nothing against the Dwarves specifically, but at the moment the thought of metal, forged and tempered, slicing through armor, rending fallow earth, sounded incredibly therapeutic, so you would be ready when your chance for battle came, no matter what the King had said of caution and dire circumstances before.

 

The King’s disregard for you and your wellbeing had worn on you, chipping away at your psychological strongholds until you’d snapped, and the days that eked by without a hint of reprimand for the disrespect you’d showed him in the tent only convinced you further that he cared naught for you. Surely without the promise of his wife lying dormant within you you meant little or nothing to him; just another Halfling banned from his Kingdom, another member of his company, another woman hopelessly in love with him.

 

And by the Valar, were you in love with him.

 

Your previous affection turned to powder and ash in your heart at the thought, the chalky mixture cloying your veins, making your blood slugging and cold as it pumped through your body. You felt as though you viewed the world from behind a fog, your perception thick and clumsy with sorrow. You loved the King, loved his temper, his rage, his roiling emotion, his kind caresses. You had cherished the candle lit dinners and long hours of conversation, had gotten used to his questions, his interest, and his attentions. You’d even become accustomed to the idea of settling down in Mirkwood, of finally making a home, a place to remain, a place to grow. You loved the King when he was cruel and kind in turn, and above it all you knew that he didn’t love you back. As the hours ticked by and he didn’t come for you, didn’t seek you out, didn’t send as much as an apology or explanation your way, you were becoming more and more convinced that he never would.

 

 _No matter though,_ you thought with a fervent dismissal that you didn’t feel resounding true in your heart as you raised your gleaming weapon to your eye line for inspection, watching as the setting sun glinted off the cool metal of the blade like the kiss of hot blood on gleaming silver, _When the war begins, nothing will matter but rage and ire, nothing but strike and parry, defend and oppose, protect and serve. Nothing will matter but blood and fealty. Nothing but blood._

Nothing but blood, and you suspected it would suit you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> I know that we ended on a dark note, but I thought it fitting because the reader is in such a bad place and there is still so much more darkness to come in the chapters that overlap with BOTFA. What did we think of this chapter; not enough reader POV? Thranduil trying (and not really succeeding) to understand the readers feelings? What did Iôlhel say to Thranduil in her impromptu meeting with him? Why did that spur him to finally reach out to the reader? Perhaps we'll find out next chapter! ;)
> 
> Any one catch that Iôlhel/Bard moment?! Threw that in there just for fun, and hinted at the first chapter of that upcoming fic!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I have received such lovely support from all of you, your comments truly mean the world to me, thank you all! Please let me know any thoughts, feelings or questions you may have regarding this chapter, and thank you for reading!
> 
> Mood Board for this chapter! 
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/160828835039/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-9-ruined-and
> 
> ALSO extra goodies, because Chapter 10 is taking awhile! Much Love! <3
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/161063138439/also-because-i-feel-bad-i-made-this-image-of
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/161063072549/and-because-im-frantically-working-on-chapter-10


	10. Pure and Profaned

Thranduil, the Ever-Watchful King, the Great Monarch of Mirkwood, Mighty Protector of His Realm, was heartily and completely, dare he say pitifully, lovesick over you.

 

Ever since his inept page had returned without his sullen, spirited Halfling, you with those eyes that glinted like priceless gems as you gazed coyly up at him and your fiery fëa that set his pounding heart alight, he’d been in a sour mood, utterly unable to focus on the silver-maned Wizard currently striding agitatedly about his tent spewing somber warnings, becoming increasingly more vexed with each passing moment. If only the gray bearded _Mithrandir_ would cease his well-intentioned bleating’s, not to mention his incessant pacing, then maybe the headache pounding relentlessly in Thranduil’s circlet bedecked head would lessen and he could determine if there was any credence roiling in the Wizards anxiously intoned words, portents that sat heavy in the air, thrumming like the ancient rumble of thunder crackling against a cloudless sky.

 

Thranduil sighed then, swirling weary fingers over eternally aching temples, uncaring of the distinct lack of diplomacy and tact that the enervated action showed. He couldn’t stop his eyes from flashing to the entrance of his billowing tent then, and he momentarily cast aside all of his carefully donned monarchical veneers with a drained sigh and a carelessly concealed streak of boredom as he gazed past the gilded roiling wind-kissed canvas out into the darkened camp beyond. Just for a moment he thought he spied the silvery slip of your sword flashing against the spark of a distant fire lit somewhere amid the company, deadly steel gleaming like a jewel against the ravendark cloak of night, like a beacon among the churning moonlit sea, serving as the only blessed hint of your presence about him.

 

He yearned for your closeness; he ached for it, knowing dolorously that if you were by his side this seemingly amaranthine night would be just a small measure more palatable. He hadn’t realized that he’d gotten so star accursedly _used_ to your presence in the weeks preceding, namely at those tedious court functions that demanded the utmost of his regency and aristocratic dexterities. He found that he missed the simple comfort of your occupancy by his side, that lilting hint of feminine grace and wisdom thrumming light and palpable in the air, lending a measure of patience to his sharp tongue, of soothing calm to his raging breast, of kindness to his keen eyes.

 

 

Your absence sat like a stone in his gut, smarted like a wound punched straight through his chest, tearing somewhere near his heated pounding heart, bleeding like a ragged wound. He missed you, despite all; despite his station as King and yours as vagabond and Halfling, despite your quick temper and biting honesty, despite the imprudent heat roiling quite unfettered in your tempting form. Or perhaps it was because of all of these things, but whatever the details he found himself without you, and he deeply lamented the simple, wrenching fact.

 

 

Thranduil couldn’t stop his mind from wandering away from this tiresome meeting with the zealous spitting Wizard and his dark fervent words then, back to his unexpected meeting with your maid, the _bŷrath_ Iôlhel.

 

He’d been markedly surprised by her presence and equally surprised by the heated, blushing glances she’d shared with the mortal, the dark haired, stormy eyed Bard, but what the Elven maid had said to him was what truly shocked him to his core.

_“My Lord, enough of this foolishness.”_

 

The candor of her words was enough for him to have her punished, thrown in jail to rot, but the extent of his reaction was simply the blistering raise of one slender, groomed eyebrow, as he knew full well that any action against a beloved companion of yours would only entrench you more deeply from him. At least the maiden had the decency to flush at her words, though to her credit the tone of her voice never shook.

 

“It is quite obvious that you miss each other. Indeed, My Lady has been incessantly sour since you exchanged those dark words. She doesn’t smile or dance or laugh like she used to. All she does is sharpen that dreadful sword and frown at anyone bold enough to wander close by.”

 

The utter sorrow quirking the maiden’s auburn brows had stirred something in the King’s thawing breast, something that felt like the warm breeze of summer, the fevered press of spring, and he found himself beckoning for Iôlhel to continue, anxious to hear her precious observations of you.

 

“She won’t admit it, there is too much stubbornness cloying her heart, but she needs you Majesty. She loves you, and if I may be so bold I believe that you love her too. Stop your folly and go to each other. If you just show her that you care, you will melt some of the ice that has grown in her breast.”

 

Thranduil had stared in amazement at the Elven maid, shocked by her audacious indiscretion, though suddenly he’d understood why his Lady was so fond of her, wry deduction gently curving the corners of his mouth as a strange affection had bloomed unexpectedly in his chest. He tipped his head back to survey her then, falling silent as he measured the truth of her words and the strength of her spirit. The thought of your heated breast growing cold, of glacial frost blooming in your beating heart, sent a hearty ripple of disquiet undulating through the King’s own broiling chest. He didn’t want to think that you could ever become like him; cold, stoic, unmovable. Those traits didn’t befit a female of your vivacious liveliness and becoming spirit. Ring bedecked fingers folded beneath his chin as he pondered Iôlhel’s words, digits curling before him like an entrapment of branches, a snare for wisdom, for courage, before he inhaled and shifted, not wanting to meet the maiden’s eyes as he spoke.

 

“Even so, I do not believe she would still have me. I have hurt her most deeply.” Thranduil could hear the regret and sadness that laid thick in his tone, and if it had been but a few weeks ago he never would have let such emotion color his tone in front of a _bŷrath,_ but he found himself strangely changed, kinder almost, soft somehow, so he let the truth of his emotions show.

 

He was stunned to hear the soft rustle of cobalt blue skirts shifting over ancient ash and hard pressed dirt, shocked to feel the slim, cold press of small fingers against his where they sat curled around the carven arms of his traveling throne.

 

“You may be surprised by her understanding when it comes to matters of the heart, My Lord. I would not be so quick to write off the depths of her clemency, she is kind and fair, and above all compassionate. Explain things to her, and she will come to understand, My Lord. That I promise.”

 

Thranduil had been so floored by the unexpected wisdom emanating from such a young Elf that he didn’t even think to instill a punishment for her audacity to think to touch him. His thoughts had become rosy with longing, sweet as a springtime blossom as they turned to you. It took him a few beats of his balmy heart to dismiss the fearless maid and summon his liveried page to him, drawing in a shaky breath to give his orders….

 

And now where did he sit? In the presence of a weathered Wizard spouting salient augury’s and a mortal far out of his depth, fruitlessly discussing the advantages and disadvantages of the impending attack on the Dwarves while the Sorcerer spun lofty, calamitous images of that Southern darkness that Thranduil had so long turned from, had fervently fled for so many years.

 

Sighing once more, the Elvenking set his gaze to the glittering night roiling outside his tent, wishing fervently for just a moment that he could be someone else, that he could be freed from the silk and damask lined constraints of his position, that he could go to you.

 

 _All in due time,_ he thought, with a weary, petulant sort of hope blooming reverently in his chest, slipping around his racing heart as he sipped the spiced wine sloshing gently in the gossamer goblet balanced in his scopic palm, _all in due time, you would understand._

Thranduil’s intense, heated thoughts were unceremoniously interrupted by the appearance of a stout childlike being he quickly identified as a Hobbit fidgeting in his billowing doorway, grinning sheepishly up at the motley assembly of individuals through the thick ginger fringe tumbling across his forehead and toeing the scorched earth with a hairy toe.

 

Now this ought to be interesting.

* * *

You were completely and utterly sure that from now until the hopefully distant moment that your terminal breath rattled from your breast, soft as a doe’s sigh and twice as weary as the ancient dragon coiled dead at the bottom of the lake that glittered like a sheet of diamonds nearby, you would never understand the elusive Elvenking. If you still battled with the twisting, coiling mass that served as his logic-forsaken thoughts now, after so many weeks of knowing him, of sharing his meals, of giving him advice and receiving starlit stories of battles long past in exchange, then surely that doomed fight between your desires and the wishes of his cold, blackened heart would never find its happy end.

 

The sword balanced in your armor bedecked lap glimmered in the firelight, winking out a silent fervent plea that you cease the incessant grinding of your whetstone across its polished surface, the wicked glint along its slick surface signaling its readiness for battle, its deadly precision. You sighed as you finally consented and put the macabre tool away, though you were heartily proud to admit that you’d buffed and honed it within an inch of its life, quite unsure of what to do now that you had put aside the menial task that had given you so much comfort over the past few days. It had felt good to work your hand at something, to toil over an errand, that now, with your concentration not bound by scarlet tinged fear of the loss of a vital appendage or the bite of steel into surprised flesh, your thoughts were free to skip straight to their favorite forsaken destination; the Magnanimous King himself.

 

You scoffed to think that Thranduil would be pleased at your mooning over him, at your suffering now, and you sneered as much at yourself as you did at him, for despite the venom that coiled acridly in your chest, if he came to you now you weren’t entirely sure that you could properly resist him.

 

You feared you’d grown quite fond of him, jackass that he was. For every grain of ire and elitism that pumped through his ichor filled veins there was a larger dose of gentle affection, of lilting joy and deep sentiment. You’d seen his rage and his fire, had glimpsed the beast that lay dormant in his breast at all times, a necessary appendage for a King in a time of tumult, but you’d also seen the subtle softness around his edges, had tasted it in the sweetness of his kiss, in the deep yearning of his touch about your waist, fluttering at your temples, in the curve of his smile when he asked you about your day and his eyes lit in response to your answers. Here, by yourself in the fading embers of a roaring fire, you felt utterly alone, and you knew that on some level it was your fault just as much as it was his.

 

If you had just calmly explained your feelings to Thranduil instead of roaring and moaning like a steer caught in a thick bramble, eyes rolling and cloven hooves stamping with doltish ire, then perhaps you could be curled up in the warm light of that inviting tent that stood, taunting you cruelly, not even fifty paces away, beckoning you with the crook of a gilded finger and the flash of aphotic balmy eyes, promising warmth and light and companionship all at the bargain price of your hard won pride.

 

 _No,_ you resolved, turning stalwart and stubborn away from that potential course of action, from the wants that your aching heart screamed for, railed against your ribs to possess, you wouldn’t give in that easily. You had fought too long and too hard for your honor, you would not forsake it for a cup of honeyed mead, a warm bed and a Kings saccharine smile, no matter how much it might soothe your ragged soul.

 

Besides, you were warily certain that if you saw the Elvenking in your current state you’d stride right up to him, uncaring of who else was present, and either grace those lofty Adonic cheekbones of his with a bone rattling slap across his handsome, irritatingly smug face or grab that marble wrought jaw, so sharp it could cut you to the marrow and you’d thank him for it, and press your lips to his with a fervor that would no doubt shock him to his very center. You were confident that while you’d enjoy either immensely, neither of those things would prove to be particularly productive.

 

There were grievances that had to be hashed out, words that needed to be exchanged before you could proceed in your relationship; better to let your rage temper and cool before you attempted that stars accursed conversation.

 

You were thoroughly startled when you caught a glint of something pale as fresh cream and golden as a sunrise shifting in the corner of your eye, burning like an alabaster flame in the roiling heat of the dying fire, hating the way your hammering heart railed frantically against your collarbones as you wondered fervently if the King had indeed come to see you. Bitter defeat sizzled like acid in your throat and your pulse returned to its natural, somewhat disappointed stasis as you recognized the stately figure as the Prince of Mirkwood, Leglolas.

 

“ _Hir nin,_ Legolas,” You greeted him with the slight inclination of your head, internally patting yourself on the back not only for the Elvish that you had so recently acquired but for the diplomacy lilting in the action despite the despondency thrumming through your veins, fizzling hotly over any surprise at the Princes unexpected arrival. He’d reached camp earlier that very day to warn his father of the Orc armies marching on Erebor, and was now preparing for battle along with the rest of the company.

 

You watched as the fair haired Prince sat gingerly by the fire beside you, the cool blue eyes that crackled with reflected licks of pale flame reminding you poignantly of another similar pair that you had come to know quite well, as you’d gazed longingly into them within balmy coal lit chambers, or caught them glinting temptingly at you over the gossamer rim of a crystalline cup, though they were slightly more aphotic and much more seasoned than the markedly younger ones glittering as they swung towards you now.

 

“There will be a battle soon, one much larger than this meager quarrel over stone and gem. I think you can sense that just as deeply as can I.” The Elven Prince’s words were surprisingly calm, regal even, despite the hard edge, the bitter bite ringing in them. You imagined he was thinking of his people then, imagining them falling bloody and slick under merciless Dwarven axes and crude Orc blades. Legolas’s pale brow furrowed under the weight of blood moons and battle fields, and suddenly he looked just like his father, his countenance holding all the monarchical imposition and regal weight that were gained to accommodate the influx of worry, of impossible decision, that inevitably crowded every King’s brow. The sight almost made you sigh and very nearly spurred you to weep, but you batted back the impulses with a firm mental shake and a thick swallow of your throat.

 

“Indeed, My Lord,” You replied, voice like steel as you met the regents gaze, acknowledging the deep kernel of panic that had been blooming in your chest for some time, disquiet growing in response to the ever shifting signs of a changing world, a world made stygian under the weight of foul things. His eyes were darker than his fathers, glimmering like deep pure sapphires instead of sunlit cerulean. You were suddenly sure which shade you preferred. “War has been brewing for quite some time, that much has been obvious even to me, though I readily admit I know little about the happenings in Court.” Your comment wrought a slight smile from Legolas’s pursed lips, and as you took in that amusing sight you got the sense that the expression graced his mirthful mouth often.

 

“You might be surprised to find just how much you do know.” Legolas said, thoroughly intriguing you with his half-truths and shadowlit words, making you lean in towards him as he continued, “I have heard and seen the regard that my father pays you in all things, but especially in matters of his Court. He cares for you; I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. There’s more hidden beneath his slow smiles, this I know well.”

 

You took a moment to ponder this, your apparent importance to Thranduil, and mused that Legolas was most likely just as starved for the King’s acquiescence as you were. As you thought on that you wondered suddenly if Legolas thought that you sought to replace his mother, to usurp her throne and station. It could make sense; you’d appeared out of nowhere, possessing the elegantly pointed ear of the King, receiving fine gifts from him, indulging in late night audiences, sharing his bed was the next logical step. You flushed deeply, suddenly unable to look at him as you stammered.  


“I-I just, well I could, I don’t want you to think that I am scheming or plotting with regards to your father,” The words were clumsy and thick on your tongue, but you found they rolled off easier with each passing syllable, as if in assurance that you were making the right decision, “I am not trying to replace your mother, Mandos bless her fëa, I wouldn’t even think to. Not that it matters anymore, I think the King and I are quite finished. Whatever affection that we might have shared is fruitless, he yearns for a Queen that I am not.”

 

Legolas surprised you by brushing his cool, lithe fingers over yours, making you meet his glinting eyes with a poorly concealed measure of shock thrumming on your features. “Do not be too hard on him, for all his ancient scars and deep running wounds he tries his best. You have given him springtime in the bleak winter of his life, have brought joy to his acrid days. Such a feat is not lightly dismissed.” The Mirkwood Prince moved to go, rising to light feet with all the elegance of a gazelle, but before he went he turned to you, his gaze heartbreakingly melancholy, “As for my mother, I believe she would have liked you. Her place is her own, as is yours.” He paused then, pale eyes sliding over your face, next words poignantly punctuated by a soft smile, “You have my blessing, My Lady.”

 

And with a sweeping bow that left your head ringing and joy blooming in your chest, Legolas strode away, moving deeper into the encampment. The stark differences between this conversation and your first interaction with the Monarch were not lost on you, in fact they had your head swirling with bright surprise and shocked jocundity. The Mirkwood Prince appeared much changed since you’d last seen him, as though in his travels he’d gained a hard won pearl of wisdom, had discovered a painful truth of some kind.

 

You wondered what that bleak truth was for the rest of the night, sleeping fitfully as you tossed and turned, mind filled with dark dreams of war and blood and broken bodies, tinged surreptitiously with fragments of starlit strands slipping like silk through upturned fingers, of petal soft lips brushing heatedly against yours, of pointed ears pricking the tips of your fingers like a balmy kiss.

 

When you woke in the morning to the soft, pallid light of dawn flitting about you with a gentle mirth, so brilliant and clear for such a dark day, you felt a fist of panic and fear seize brutally around your chest, squeezing your ribs and surrounding your pounding heart. As you grimly rubbed the grit of fitful sleep from your weary eyes and surveyed the bustling, war ready camp teeming about you, you realized that all your anger would serve you well now, just might protect your life. In fact you’d sorely need it in the hours to come.

 

The war was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> Here it is, a new chapter! This chapter is slightly shorter because I was trying to combine this passage with an equally long (smutty!) passage, but combined it would have been way too long so I had to cut it off, I apologize if the ending seems abrupt! Regardless, I sincerely hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned, because I just know you all are going to LOVE chapter 11 for many reasons, I can't wait for you all to read it ;)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I look forward to your comments!
> 
> Mood Board !
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/161128212519/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-10-pure-and


	11. Ravish and Rage

In all honesty, Thranduil couldn’t truly say that he was surprised when the noble intentioned, staunchly intoned negotiations with the _Gonnhirrim_ went sour.

 

So sour, in fact, that he was now grimacing from his perch on his Great Elk as he churlishly contemplated the various battle positions he could order his army to assemble, his brow furrowing with ire as that foul creature Dáin, cousin and friend of Thorin, hurled spiked insults at him from atop the smelly snorting pig he’d rode into battle. Despite the Arkenstone that the Hobbit, this Bilbo Baggins, had surprisingly supplied them with just last night Thorin remained, as his heritage seemed to dictate, stubborn and daft, refusing all, even the humans and their meager request for aid, insisting that he would have war. So war the Dwarf would get.

 

As for battle positions, a shield wall could provide increased safety and an iron clad defense, but at the cost of limited mobility. His fighters performed best in open quarters, afforded the advantage of movement, he knew this well, but there was simply not enough time to have his soldiers assemble in any other arrangement. Thankfully, though the Dwarves possessed tenacity and brute strength, they lacked all grace, a trait that his army held in spades. This light footedness and unwavering dexterity would be enough to send the Dwarves squealing back to the dank stone halls from whence they’d come.

 

Yelling out his commands, pleased with the haste and obeisance with which his soldiers carried out their orders, Dáin’s fetid aspersions ringing in his ears, lending heat to his tone and icy steel to his gaze, Thranduil rode to the front of his army and prepared for the charge. Damn the Wizard pleading earnestly somewhere behind him, playing at fervent wisdom, calling out words like “folly” and “madness.” The only madness here was seated within Thorin Oakenshield, supposed King Under the Mountain, though he behaved more like a thief than a monarch, and in his temperate flame-haired relative who was currently ordering his own troops into position. Damn the human man, the Dragonslayer, whose steely gaze he could feel on him like the slide of a knife down his cheekbones, his gaze no doubt holding venomous disdain for the mechanisms of war and the workings of contention. And damn the _Gonnhirrim_ , who staunchly refused him his due; they held no notion of the value of his heirlooms, of their preciousness to him and the lengths to which he’d go to regain them. Perhaps they thought they were being valiant, guarding his treasures from him, withholding his prize, but in truth they were being idiotically daft. He’d rip down their sows and spears, lay low their lofty walls of stone, set ruin upon that mountain, as he should have so many years ago when Thrór had committed his foul betrayal, and retake what was his. Then and only then could he claim his mate, his stars fated match, _you_.

 

Thranduil was pulled from his pleasant valor and lust tinged thoughts of how you would reward his momentous efforts by the sudden and inopportune arrival of an abhorrent fleet of Orc armies, screaming creatures rushing over the hill like a spill of black ink against parchment, hollering their fetid pleasure at having caught their quarry so unaware. Azog’s army was brimming with heinous creatures who gnashed their yellow pointed teeth and clapped their rotting bulky arms together brutishly, as if to imply that they were a threat.

 

Sighing internally, unimpressed by the mediocre display of hostility from the foul vermin, Thranduil pondered the likelihood of the Dwarves being able to vanquish the chattering number on their own, watching as they rallied away from his army and towards the malodorous legion gathering on the horizon.

 

Thranduil remembered an ancient carnage that had fractured his very soul so many years ago, when he’d still been young, a fray that even now he shivered with unease to think of, a battle on the steps of Mordor, under the shadow of Mount Doom. It had been a battle when the sky had blackened with foul flying things that pecked and pricked at men and elf alike, a battle when the marshes ran with fresh blood and there were all manner of wicked creatures as far as the eye could see. A battle when the cimmerian form of Sauron split the sky. No, he was not intimidated by this ragged assembly.

 

However, judging by the scarcity of the _Gonnhirrim’s_ numbers and the excited snorts of the comparatively large Orc army they intended to meet, Thranduil’s decimation of the haughty stubborn Dwarves would have to wait.

 

Sighing outwardly, absently noting the Wizards fervent cries that he should provide aid, Thranduil ordered his army to assist the Dwarves in attacking Azog’s legion, sure that under their sturdy weapons they’d make quick work of the enemy. Whether he was spurned more by memories of ancient battles long past and the comradery they’d inspired, or by a strange, possessive wish to crush the Dwarves himself, he did not know. But Thranduil found a kind of solace here on the battle field, a blood fueled haze washing over him as the slim, confident slip of his blade made quick work of fetid flesh and tough hide, of Orc and Goblin alike, as his Noroth strode through the roiling battle with a graceful ease, aiding his master with a well-placed goring antler or studiously skull crushing hoof, as his mind and his actions, finally, became one.

 

He was fighting for _you_ now, fighting for your right as his mate, for your place at his side, for your future with him, and under that valiant banner he was unstoppable. Hoarse, dying bellows fell on uncaring ears as he cut down another troll with ease, his blade sliding across its belly like a knife through butter. He felt its black blood spray hot and thick on his temple, and grimaced as the acrid smell of death cloyed his senses. Thranduil paused in the thick of battle to swipe a leather braced forearm over his blood speckled forehead, peering around him at the ensuing carnage as he did so.

 

Thranduil’s blood ran cold when in the distance he spied a troll wrecking the crumbling walls of Dale, the already buckling barricade collapsing as its giant body fell upon the cobbled stone. Fear, real and stark in his breast for the first time that morning as it bloomed like a bruise on beaten flesh, speared like a shard of ice in his chest as he watched wave upon wave of Goblins and Orcs rush into the city, carelessly trampling the body of their fallen comrade. At that moment Thranduil cast aside his tenacious quest to reclaim the Gems of Lasgalen, the honor of his house and those starlit heirlooms; he discarded the fact that his place was here among his armies, not in the desolated ruins of Dale filled with humans and the remnants of his people’s camp. All that filled his mind were the orders that he’d given his most trusted guard to ensure that you didn’t slip away into the thick of battle, that you stayed put where you were in the supposed safety of the camp, and the chilling fact that the foul creatures of Mordor were now streaming unfettered into the city.

 

Vacating his post, urging his Noroth forward with a fervent kick of his armored heels at the beasts flanks, Thranduil rushed to the crumbling ruins of Dale. The trip took far too long for his liking, and he slew the foul creatures he passed with perhaps a touch more gusto than necessary, but finally he was upon the bridge to the city, uncaring of the bodies he threw from the rampart as he and his Elk flew down the path.

 

The ensuing moments were a blur of Noroths enraged cries as his shaggy fur was pierced by innumerable arrows, of the gleam of Elven silver as Thranduil raised his sword to strike at the Orcs surrounding him, of black blood soaring in the air like the turn of a ravens wing and fetid bleating’s of the dying as his fierce weapon expertly pierced skin, muscle and sinew.

 

The thought of losing you, of never seeing your devious smile or feeling your small, lithe hand in his or more alluringly your hot, hungry mouth moving wickedly on him, of seeing your vibrant, addictive spark fluttering out for eternity, made a soul deep ache, so fierce it shamelessly overshadowed the flame that constantly burned for his late wife, erupt in his breast. It fiercened the keen bite of his blade, sharpened his eyes as they searched for chink in armor, for weaknesses in scaled flesh, it gritted his teeth with barbarity. Close to his breast, right beside his hammering heart, he kept his thoughts of you; of your kind eyes and blissfully honest words, of your unfettered spirit and wanton sensuality. Beloved returned to him or not, he wanted you, all of you, and he wanted you now.

 

Before he knew what he was doing Thranduil was tearing through the city on foot, calling your name like a male possessed, though the fear gripping his chest, cloying his heart and ripping through his throat certainly felt like a foreign entity intruding upon his breast, intent upon wringing the life from his body with the ironclad vice of fear. He rounded corners quickly and felled all manner of varmint with little regard for anything that wasn’t you, rage filled red beginning to tinge his panicked gaze, before finally, blessedly, he caught sight of the shining glimmer of your hair and the sterling slip of the sword he’d gifted to you.

 

And there you were, his heart embodied outside his beating chest, a goddess painted in gleaming armor and thick blood as black as night before his very eyes, your features set in a fierce, beautiful rage and your weapon glinting as you raised it above your head to strike down the Orc skulking before you . It dawned on him, as subtle as a hammer to the chest, that this was the first time he was seeing you since your rage in the tent, since you’d imparted painful but honest words to him and shed heart wrenching tears, and for all his thoughts of reluctant contrition and honest naivety, he realized as he gazed at your sweat slicked, bloodstained battle worn face that he was completely and totally in love with you.

 

He kicked aside the cooling Golbin corpse twitching at his feet and dimly, through the roaring of his pounding heart in his ears, watching as you whirled with unimaginable grace and felled the two Orcs rushing at you with the graceful, skilled strokes of your lethal blade, Thranduil realized that you just might not need him to protect you.

 

* * *

 

By all the gilded Valar residing in their hallowed halls, what need had you for tears when you knew the feel of rending foul flesh?

 

Your sword sang through the air, catching the late summer sun like a coy flirtatious wink, a graceful extension of your arm as you brought it down expertly on the head of the Orc to your right. Quick as a bolt of lightning you dislodged your blade with a powerful kick to the foul creature’s chest and whipped the weapon with a huff to slice the jugular of the Orc on your left. You stood watching their blood stain the ashen ground, your chest heaving as you panted with exertion, a slight smile curving your lips at the dreadful formidability of your war sport.

 

Despite the best efforts of the guard that had been assigned to protect you, or in other words to keep you from any and all action in the valley below, you’d given him the slip, a task made easier by the attack on Dale, intent on wetting your sword with Orc blood. By your count so far you’d slain about fifty beasts, though you had no intention of slowing your progress now.

 

And by the Valar, it felt good to rend foul flesh once more, to run your silver through your enemy’s breast, to vent your frustrations on deserving quarry. You’d gotten comfortable in the moonlit, aureate glow of Thranduil’s court, had become accustomed to his gifts and his petting, to the luxurious amenities there, but proving you could still hold your own on the battlefield lent a healthy measure of confidence to your stride, of bite to your sharp daggers, of levity to your heart.

 

 

The very same heart that stuttered pitifully in your chest when you raised your gaze from bloated corpses and blood stained steel only to become ensnared in eyes of glacial blue, roiling like a snow storm and as beautiful as a moonlit ocean shore. You knew those eyes, and the thrumming virile, armored male they belonged to.

 

 

_Thranduil._

 

 

You froze where you stood, your lips parting as your gaze locked with his, consumed as you were by his intense eyes, that shade of blue you knew so well making your heart lurch in your chest, as if it wanted to go to him, to find comfort in his presence. He reached out a blood spattered hand to you slowly, as if baiting a cornered animal, his expression one of perfect contrition, of absolute adoration and sorrow, tinged with the barest hint of guilt, and you momentarily considered raising your hand to meet his before the stinging bite of reality smacked the impulse away.

 

 

You had just drawn a breath to tell him to leave in the most callous way you could muster when a slinking movement of jet black threadbare cloth and acrid flesh caught your eye, flashing like a tendril of smoke before you spied the dark glint of a blade. You moved to block the blow and disarm the offending attacker, but a blur of silver armor and long starlit hair beat you to it.

 

 

 

“Be careful, little Starling.” Thranduil’s tone was somewhere between acrimony and concern, thrumming with barely fettered bloodlust and something that bordered dangerously close to molten desire.

 

 

“I’m fine,” You spat at him after a stunned pause in which you collected your jaw from the blood soaked ground, hating the hurt that flashed in his eyes as you spoke, more venom in your tone that you’d intended. You refused to admit that it was anything remotely close to caring or sympathy that made you continue, “Keep your guard up, these fouls creatures hit hard.”

 

 

Thranduil flashed you a familiar knowing look then, a glance that reminded you that he could read you with ease, that he knew the inner workings of your mind and your heart almost as well as you did, though after a heartbeat in which those celadon eyes pinned you in place he simply canted his head, mercifully not pressing the subject.

 

 

“Do not worry for my safety, _Peredhel_ , these beasts are a mere inconvenience to me.” You stifled the dual urge to roll your eyes and grin at his customary ego, feeling something warm and urgent and blessedly familiar blooming in your chest at being close to him once more. You were incredibly reluctant to admit just how much you had missed his audacious mirth, his lofty airs, the comforting closeness of his huge form that made you feel protected, utterly safe. Dimly you realized that Thranduil must have rushed away from the thick of the battle raging in the valley below, away from his rightful place there as King, to come find you now. Something that was dangerously close to tenderness ached in your chest at that thought, momentarily dousing the firey anger that roiled there. Legolas’s words from the previous night rang in your ears then, widening your eyes and parting your lips.

 

 

_Do not be too hard on him, for all his ancient scars and deep running wounds he tries his best. You have given him springtime in the bleak winter of his life, have brought joy to his acrid days. Such a feat is not lightly dismissed_ _._

 

Could it be true, could you genuinely mean that much to him? Gauging him from the sincere gleam in his glinting eyes and the heartfelt set of his tempting mouth to the slight tremble in his free hand, as if it ached to reach out for you, you reasoned that it very well could be.

 

 

You both shifted as the sounds of jagged howls and skulking steps scraped nearby, simultaneously recognizing the uncomfortable proximity of the Orcs infiltrating Dale, interrupting your unceremonious reunion. “We must find somewhere that we can speak privately; we have important matters to discuss.”

 

 

You sighed, glancing down as you cleaned some drying Orc blood from your blade, avoiding his gaze and the tense implications of his words. You knew that Thranduil was right, you had many things to discuss, but now, with the hulking warmth of him so close to you, those celadon eyes gazing at you with immeasurable warmth, that battle armor becoming him quite nicely, your impulses were flitting closer to _kiss him with all you have_ than to _slap him and be done with it._ You weren’t entirely sure if that boded well or ill for you now.

 

 

“I know, Thranduil,” You replied, your voice a weary sigh, those traces of fierce battle born anger melting slowly into sharp hurt, “But this is not the best time for such-” Your point was cut off quite bolsteringly by the arrival of a trio of snapping Goblins from beneath a nearby crumbling archway, each wielding a crude bone and onyx blade, their dirty yellow eyes roiling with craven bloodlust. You shared a weary look with the Monarch of Mirkwood, and after a heartbeat you rolled your baneful blade in your grip and attacked in tandem.

 

  


You slew them with ease, piling their bodies carelessly about the causeway as they fell, steaming black blood pouring like curdled milk from beneath expertly carved wounds. As much as you hated to admit it, the pair of you made a good team. Each one effortlessly picked up on subtle clues roiling in the others body language; the flick of a blade that signaled intent to attack, the direction of the eyes that told where the deadly strike was aimed, the abrupt inhalation before the fatal blow was delivered. You were like two parts of the same well-oiled machine, and judging by the satisfied, almost proud smirk tugging at the King’s lips, he knew it as well.

 

“Then we will make time,” The King commanded, that familiar monarchical mask slipping back onto his features, the sight making a spear composed of equal parts anger and lust sink low in your belly. After everything you deserved that mask cast aside, you deserved the real Thranduil, the one hidden beneath the court proceedings and Kingly etiquette, and you felt slighted that he was denying you that now, “I have some important concerns to impart. You will listen to me, female!” Thranduil punctuated his haughty statement with the jabbing of his glinting blade into the skull of the Goblin still writhing at his feet, the dull crunching of bone and wet squelch of flesh making tendril of antipathy ripple through your veins. It wasn’t as if you were all that receptive to his contentions before he’d started flinging orders, now that he was once again acting as if he held all the power here, as if you had no say in the matter you felt ire bubbling in your chest anew.

 

“Why? Because you desire it?” You scoffed, incredulous as you flicked fetid blood from your blade and lifted a sardonic brow to him, resting your free hand on one cocked hip.

 

“Yes,” Thranduil grated before he shook his head, as if he himself wasn’t sure of the answer, “No, not just that.” Frustration was banked in his tone as he spoke, lilting in the canting of his pale head and the furrow of his dark brows, “By all the Valar, I simply want you, Starling!” You desperately wanted to believe him as you stared gazed into those moonlit eyes of his, as you were momentarily lost in the roiling blue of that gaze, tender and fervent as it was on you, but your heart ached to remember exactly why he thought he did desire you.

 

“And who do you claim?” You asked, weary castigation coloring your tone, your eyes like daggers as they fell on him, “Me or your late wife?” You saw the guilt flash heavy in his eyes before he looked away, caught the regret flitting there, and it was just enough for you to bolster your ire, allowing you to impart one longing look at him before you turned to go, “I’m afraid this quarry won’t be so easily ensnared, Majesty.”

 

 

“ _Peredhel_ , wait!” Thranduil called behind you, but you were already slipping away beneath the crumbling arches and fading stone parapets, heading towards the mountain when you spied a large pack of Goblins, about a hundred or so, chasing a small number of Dwarves. Though you had no love for the Masters of Stone, right then you needed to feel bones break beneath your blade, see foul beasts sent into the ether where they belonged, vanquish some dark enemy. You needed to bolster your rage on something other than the King, for though you were angry, you were also sure that if you turned around and faced him you’d fall straight into his arms, where you heartily suspected you belonged.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Stars curse it all_ , Thranduil thought as he scaled the cliff face in pursuit of you, ensuring that he kept the dark slope of your shoulders, the whipping flurry of your breeze ruffled hair, in sight at all times, _if you’d just stop climbing and listen to him!_

 

He desperately wanted to explain his side of things, to share his realizations of love and ardor, to reveal the truth of his emotions. He’d seen the warmth banked in your eyes as you’d conversed, had noted the blush that stained your comely cheekbones as you’d caught sight of him, knew you could feel that you were compatible with him, that together you were a stars fated match. He even sensed you warming to him in the city below, of that he was sure, but you were also deeply hurt and incredibly angry with him. He would have to tread carefully now.

 

He strongly noted that you were currently averse to his showings of sovereign power, where before you had melted like late winter ice under the first sun of springtime for his kingly decrees. He’d heartily enjoyed that display, reveling in your soft gasps and heated glances, but now he could tell you wanted more. You wanted respect and honesty, you wanted not just a King but a mate as well. You wanted an equal.

 

And he would gladly become that for you, if he could ever catch up with your impossible pacing.

 

Thranduil felt a twinge of fatigue gnawing at his muscles, wearing at his bones, as he traversed the last towering ridge of the mountain pass you’d taken in order to follow the macabre caravan of Dwarves and pursuing Goblins. He took a moment to catch his breath, grumbling to himself that perhaps he was getting a bit too aged to go skipping over alpine sierra’s, he was several thousand years old after all, but he brushed that thought aside as his strength returned to him.

 

All his effort he now turned to finding you, scanning misty white snow banks and craggy outcrops for any hint of your form. He felt his pointed ears twitching as he listened intently, picking up the distant ringing of steel against steel, of the scuffling of lithe feet and the dragging of deadened limbs. His lips quirking, sure that you were vanquishing any enemies in your path, he set after you, careful to stay firmly among the ancient crumbling ruins atop the mountain instead of tumbling haphazardly down the rock hewn cliff.

 

As he rounded the corner he noted that the path continued upwards, that above he could hear signs of more battle, of more foes, but then he saw the silken slip of your hair, caught the sight of your sword gleaming as you plunged it into the chest of the Goblin nearest to you, and he felt his heart swell with pride and love for your fierceness.

 

Thranduil realized that you were atop a plateau of sorts, a swath of small even ground set in the side of the mountain, off the path a ways. If you were to stride some paces to your left or right you’d be met with sheer cliff face, and he watched as you took advantage of the precarious position to kick the fetid bodies of the fallen creatures over the side of the mountain, your gaze on them as they fell away.

                        

Thranduil took a tentative step forwards, ensuring that his booted feet crunched on freshly fallen snow, present due to the chill of the increased altitude, alerting you to his presence. His heart stuttered in his chest when you turned and your gaze fell on him, as sharp as a whip and many times more biting as it bored into him.

 

“Thranduil,” You gasped, ire making your eyes glacial, though you didn’t seem surprised to see him. Of course you’d known that he was following you, could sense him trailing behind. He’d thought he’d seen you glance over your shoulder once or twice, a ghost of a smile curving your lips, before you turned back on your course.

 

Before you could draw in a breath to speak, supposedly to dismiss him once more, he stepped closer to you, a stalwart determination flashing in his eyes, showing in the quaver of his breath and the sturdiness of his limbs as he neared. He’d been without you long enough, had denied the truth of his feelings for far too many nights. His heart was utterly and completely yours, and he fervently hoped that you would accept it in exchange for even the most meager portion of your own.

 

He knew what he had to do.

  
He must lay himself low, dash himself to pieces against the rocks; reveal his aching heart for your shameless scrutiny, no matter how much it pained him to do so. There was so much love in him he felt it brimming out of him, spilling from his seams, no doubt showing in the glint of his aphotic eyes, in the shaking of his hand that he outstretched to you, the fingers that twitched to trace the curve of your cheekbones, the bow of your tempting lips. You met his eyes with a gaze filled with pain, with a deep hurt that lashed at him, shamed him. He had to rectify those haunts, had to kiss away the shadows from beneath your eyes, swipe the tears from your cheeks with the balmy truth of his feelings.

 

“I am not your wife.” You said again, whipping his tender heart anew with fresh guilt, though your voice held a telltale quaver that Thranduil heartily suspected belayed your fervent hope that the simple fact wouldn’t sway him from his confession.

 

It didn’t.

 

“I know,” He said, watching as your features hardened, no doubt preparing your heart for his rejection. He reveled in the joy he hoped he would impart on you with his next statement, “I accept this,” He noted with delight the shock in your gaze, the fervent relief thrumming there, “I accept it, and even more I am glad for it. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for a bold, fiery Halfling who lays bare the truth of my actions, whether they be folly or not, who sets a flame of desire and admiration wild in my breast, to have claimed my heart, but you have, _Peredhel_. I couldn’t figure out why the wicked appendage felt so abnormal in its icy perch in my breast, but now I understand.” Thranduil neared, stepping carefully towards you, as if approaching a wounded animal, as if trying to soothe a bucking stallion. Indeed, that was what you seemed to be as you gazed at him, muscles tense as if to flee at any moment, eyes darting wildly across his features, “It is because it no longer belongs to me. It belongs to you, my Starling.” Thranduil held your gaze as he kneeled before you, watching as your lips parted and tears glinted in your shining eyes, “And if you ask it of me, if you still desire it, then it is yours, my Halfing, My _Peredhe_ l. My Queen.”

 

Thranduil held his breath as a yawning silence spanned the length that followed his words, no sound splitting the quiet except the gentle pattering snow fall and the sounds of battle ringing so far in the distance that they seemed to be a memory from a dream, a scene from another world. You swayed before him on unsteady feet, your eyes wide and glimmering with unshed tears, and though he wanted to caress those droplets from your comely cheeks, to cradle the curve of your jaw in his hand, to feel your pulse beneath his fingers, he waited. The one thing that he had above all else was patience.

 

“You mean this?” You asked after a lengthy study of his earnesty, your voice no more than a mere whisper, your expression hopeful but reluctant, and he hated that you even had to wonder. He wanted to ensure you of his sincerity, to sweep away the evil doubts that he’d cast into your mind.

 

Tentatively, slowly, he slipped his hand beneath yours, cupping the calloused slip of your palm in his. Keeping his gaze on you he spoke, “My heart is yours, My Lady, until the stars fall from their gilded thrones in the heavens, until all the rivers of the world run dry and the very earth beneath our feet turns to ashes under the iron gauntlet of stalwart time. You are not my wife, nor do I desire you to be. In all the many years since her passing I have never met another who stirred such love in me as you have. Will accept my broken, bleeding heart? Will you be mine?”

 

Thranduil watched as a crystalline tear slipped down your cheek, tracking a bleary path through blood and grime, paining him like the slide of a knife against his throat, cutting him its entire journey down your lovely face. The gentle hand you let rest in his upturned grip tightened, your slim fingers curling blessedly around his own digits, and he allowed himself to release the pent up breath he’d been holding. With your other hand, freed by the sheathing of your sword, you whirled shaking fingers over his jawline, swirling them around his temple and tracing the pointed foliate shape of his ear. Thranduil leaned into the touch, reveling in the pleasant shivers the caress sent shattering across his senses, allowing his eyes to close as the blissful slip of your fingers careened over his skin, indescribably grateful for the gentle warmth, the open hearted kindness in the touch.

 

“Don’t ask permission. It doesn’t become you, My King.” He heard the smile in your voice as he opened his eyes, his heart singing out its joy for the smile curving your lips. He could die a happy male if only he saw that smile every morning, “If you wish claim me, to make me yours utterly, you must risk rejection. You must tempt the Valar and put all at stake. That is the price.”

 

Thranduil gulped heavily, something about the color of your tone making his mind fill with carnal images of your slim thighs about his waist, of his mouth upon your skin and your cries of pleasure in his ear. Judging by the wicked glint playing in your gaze, your own thoughts were similarly tinged. The weight of your hand against his was suddenly overwhelming, making waves of pure desire skitter across his flesh, slip gleefully down his spine to settle somewhere low in his belly. His voice was all lusty husk and needy groan as he replied.

 

“How may I pay, My Lady?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> OMG what did you all think of this chapter! I know it's huge, over 5,000 words, but battle scenes are just too fun to write! I was so relieved to finally lessen some of the tension simmering between the reader and thranduil, though I'm sorry to leave on yet another cliffhanger :/ Don't hate me please!! 
> 
> Anywho, there will most definitely be action of the smutty kind next chapter, and I can't wait for you all to read it! As always, I love your wonderful feedback! Let me know your thoughts, comments, questions and concerns, or just stop by to say hello! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Mood Board:  
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/161252417699/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-11-ravish-and


	12. Faithful and Fallow

_“How may I pay, My Lady?”_

 

His lust drenched darkly intoned words rang loudly in your ears, echoing beautifully, punctuated rhythmically by the pounding of your racing heart and the sharp inhalations of your elated breath. You let them reverberate through your mind, each one tangling with the other for dominance, until you believed them utterly, though your confidence in their sincerity was momentously aided by the tender blue of Thranduil’s gaze, by the searing lust and molten heat seated there, and the teasing thumb he had begun sweeping over the back of your hand, the simple motion making heavy tingles skitter over your sensitive flesh.

 

You had suspicions, mostly midnight fueled naughty ones, about the kind of lover that Thranduil would be, dreams that you had only recently dared to indulge; gentle perhaps, passionate maybe, thorough undoubtedly. But now, as you gazed down at the Monarch’s monolithic kneeling form, a form which nearly vibrated with the need to overpower, to take control, you were sure that no matter what else, he was a dominating one.

 

And you recognized that he was forgoing that for you, rejecting those desires, belaying those impulses in favor of absolute submission to you now, and the meaning of such a sacrifice was not lost on you. In fact it only seemed to enhance your desire for him tenfold, sharpening your gaze as it tripped over full parted lips that were practically begging to be kissed, a sturdy slip of neck that ached for your tongue, and solid muscled shoulders that looked more than strong enough to bear the urgent weight of your seeking hands.

 

“A kiss,” you ordered, your voice husky and low, a fervent throaty sirens call that surprised you with its heat. Your flexed your slim fingers around the wide berth of his hand, a silent but firm direction. You watched with delight as a smirk tugged at that sinful mouth, the Thranduil that you knew and loved peeking behind this creature that was utterly yours, and briefly your heart flipped in your chest and your lofty perch of power felt a healthy measure less stable.

 

“Yes, My Lady,” Thranduil crooned as he began kissing each one of your fingers, those soft lips slipping like silk over your trembling digits before making their tantalizing journey up the back of your hand to play at your wrist bones.

 

“Another,” you ordered as you flicked your hand and wiggled your happily kiss-drenched fingers, indicating that his obedient lips should continue their fortuitous journey northwards. As he obeyed his own long fingers deftly undid the clasps of the stiffened leather bracer secured to your forearm, and you let him, eager to feel both the welcome bite of the alpine wind and the silken whisper of his molten lips on your heated flesh. You weren’t entirely sure which blissful sensation you enjoyed more.

 

Ever obedient, he stilled when he reached the crook of your elbow, those luminous eyes flickering to you, awaiting his next command. The power, the prowess you felt thrumming through your veins then was positively _intoxicating_ , and the smile that curved your lips in response was positively naughty.

 

“Now the other one,” you commanded, offering him the fingers of your right hand and delighting when he eagerly set to his task. Your other bracer soon joined its twin on the snowy ground with a soft _whomp_ that was nearly in tandem with your pounding heart.

 

Again at your elbow Thranduil paused, shimmering blue eyes meeting yours, and with a knowing smile you crooked a finger at him, beckoning him to you. The speed with which he rose almost made you dizzy, and a delighted giggle slipped from your lips in response. His eyes flew to your mouth as you laughed, and you could tell in an instant that he meant to claim your lips with his. But before he could move you placed a gentle but firm hand on the cool metal of his breastplate, reveling in the thick coil of muscle you felt roiling beneath your touch.

 

“ _Meleth nin_ ,” he groaned, a sly pleading smile curving his lips as he leaned in fractionally towards you, his hands automatically finding purchase on your waist. Inwardly you cursed your rusty Elvish, wishing fervently that you could focus on something other than the hot press of his gloved hands at your hips, pulling, pressing, driving you wild.

 

“You forgot the greaves, My King,” you rasped in a vain attempt to regain control, trying hard not to arch into his touch, watching the playful determination, followed closely by dangerous molten lust, flash hotly across Thranduil’s handsome features, and before you could react he had scooped up your bracers from the snowy ground, picked you up bodily by the backs of your thighs and pressed you urgently against the rocky side of the mountain, just under a jagged outcropping of stone that created a small alcove of sorts. The geological feature afforded you a blessed measure of privacy, further muffling the sounds of battle far below, enhancing the ragged rasps of your mingled breaths, Thranduil’s own exhalations intoning so low they were nearly growls.

 

Without a word he dropped to one knee, flung your bracers to the ground and snapped off the gloves protecting his hands. And yet delicately, as if you were made of the finest porcelain, he carefully took one of your calves in his large hands and raised it to his shoulder, the motion bringing his pale, graceful head stark between your legs. The intimate position, and the stormy cerulean eyes of Thranduil’s eyes that were set intently on you, had the breath catching sharply in your throat and your fingers seeking  urgent purchase on the snow slickened rock behind you. As it was you could find no hold there, and automatically, without another thought, your hands dropped to Thranduil, fingers tangling in his silken hair, curling around the cool armor protecting his shoulders.

 

Though you had thought nothing of it, to Thranduil the small gesture seemed the most wanton of actions, as it had him groaning low and leaning into your touch like a great predator assuaged by its mate. He all but growled as he moved his head to run your fingers more fully through his hair and brought one exposed hand up to curve your fingers more fully around his shoulder, press your touch firmly against him.

 

As you clumsily worked the fine straps of his spaulder loose, the elegant sheets of ancient metal curving around his shoulder cold and smooth beneath your fingers, he expertly undid your shin protector and promptly tossed it over his shoulder, apparently eager to have your heated skin exposed to him. He hastily rolled up the thick wool of your leggings and immediately his hot mouth was on you, kissing up the taught lines of your leg.

 

Once he was done there he gently placed your foot on the ground, careful to leave your slim boots and socks on to protect your delicate feet from the snowy ground. Without waiting for your instruction, anticipating your next fervent order, he started on the greave of your other leg just as you managed to get one of his shoulders freed from its metal constraint and soon you began working on the other, shifting across his body so that you could reach. The action put your neck directly in line with his hungry mouth, and just as your practiced fingers slid the opposite spaulder loose Thranduil spoke.

 

“May I, My Lady?”

 

His voice broke with want on the last syllable, drenched with poignant lust and longing. Your eyes met his, your faces closer than you’d thought, and without thinking you nodded, letting the desire pounding through your veins take precedence over your logical, power fueled mind.

 

You gasped when, with a hearty amount of tenderness that shocked you, his fingers ghosted over your nape, sliding back the tangled, battle worn hair there, sweeping it down your back to give him better access to your sensitive skin.

 

“ _Le hannon_ ,” he murmured, sincerity thrumming in his gaze as those dexterous digits slid over your neck, tracing the line of your jaw, before being followed by his sinfully hot mouth. That phrase you _did_ remember, even through the din of your lust fogged mind.

 

 _Thank you._ He was thanking you for allowing him to kiss you, to touch you.  A bolt of understanding pierced your thoughts just then, and you subsequently realized that _meleth nin_ meant ‘my love.’ You felt your heart melt for him, and moaning softly you fell into his touch, trusting the sturdy press of his body and warm strength of his hands to catch you.

 

And catch you they did. Molten heat raced down your spine as he shifted up onto his feet, wrapping those scopic palms firmly around your waist and guiding you steadily into his arms as he stood, pressing you softly into the rocky at your back. Your head swam as you realized just how much taller he was than you, his immense form curving around your markedly smaller one with no small measure of protectiveness, of possession, and you shivered hard to find that the display sparked something in you, a soul deep reaction of pure _want._

His lips that were rapt on your neck didn’t abate that reaction whatsoever, what with the way that delicious mouth of his was playing at your pulse, teeth biting dully at the tender spot behind your ear, making your moan in his arms. Judging by the smug smile you felt curving against your skin he knew exactly where to touch you, where to place his lips, to have you turn to putty for him. And damn, was he succeeding.

 

But you wanted more; you wanted to feel that mouth on yours, to grip his body hard as it worked over you, to feel his skin against yours

 

“ _Mino nin!_ ” You cried out as he nipped at a particularly sensitive place near your collar bones, sudden pride flooding your veins at having remembered that resoundingly useful phrase, ‘kiss me,’ though the Elvish sounded clumsy and unpracticed on your tongue.

 

Thranduil didn’t seem to care at all however, judging by the way he pulled back to regard you, pleasure and satisfaction glinting quite becomingly in those intense celadon eyes. He brought his hands to either side of your face, fingers reverently tracing your cheekbones, thumbs ghosting over your lips, his expression colored with disbelief, as if he could scarcely believe that you’d just ordered that of him. As if he didn’t think himself worthy.

 

That star struck look gracing his handsome features made you unwaveringly sure that he was.

 

“You truly desire that, _Meleth nin_?”

 

“Yes, My King,” you nodded, biting your lip in feverish anticipation, impatience flooding your veins, “Now, please!”

 

“You shouldn’t have to beg for anything…” he murmured almost to himself before he was bending, lowering his face to yours. You felt his breath first, soft as a sigh and much more sweet, ghosting across your cheeks. Then the heat of him, so blessedly near, so huge as he stood before you, pressed against you. And then, finally, his lips, silky and pliant and incredibly hot as they moved against yours.

 

He kissed you gently at first, a rediscovery of sorts, a repossession, though that lovely lilting tameness lasted only for a few heartbeats before it dissolved into something altogether more lascivious. When you gasped in response to the masterful flicking of his tongue against your bottom lip and moved your hands across his back with urgent determination, expertly seeking and then loosening the straps that held his breast plate together, ripping the rigid metal from him with little ceremony, Thranduil groaned low, the sound rumbling deep in his broad chest, and wrapped one scopic hand around the curve of your backside to rut you harshly into him, the action banishing all remaining space between your bodies with that regal command that you’d come to love thrumming in his touch.

 

  
You mewled against his lips as you felt the warm solid length of him press against you, that small lust tinged sound just one of the many signs of your rapidly slipping control, flashing right alongside the blood stained, kiss drenched fingers you had curled around his nape that tightened with a heady mixture of possession and desire.

 

“Thranduil,” you panted against his mouth, quickly becoming lost in the fervent heat of his kiss, the wandering lilt of his touch, the blissful warmth of his body. You wanted to beg for him to claim you, to take you here in the ashen snow and howling wind with all the brutish ferality that you craved, that you needed, but his lips stole your words away, harshened your breaths, kept your tongue blissfully busy.

 

  
And yet somehow he understood, perhaps in that moment his desires were the same, for not even a heartbeat later he was ripping down the trews on your greave-less leg, freeing the appendage to wrap around his sturdy hip, while your other thigh he kept a tight hold on, spreading you as he hoisted the leg firmly into his palm.

 

Positioned like this you were completely open to him, utterly vulnerable, and in uncontrollable reaction you glanced away from him, unaccustomed to the pure, total trust passing between you now. You gasped when you felt his long slender fingers curl under your chin, raising your face to him once more.

 

“You need not look away, my Starling,” Thranduil, said, his voice still tinged with lust, but also colored with something much closer to love, “We are one, complete. You need not hide anything from me, as I will hide nothing from you.”

 

He kissed you then, soft and gentle and so full of love that it had tears brimming hotly in your eyes. You sighed against him, curling your fingers into the battle roughened material of his tunic, slipping them slowly down his chest, sensing all the ripples and chords of muscle roiling beneath your touch, aching to feel them slip against your flesh but impatient with urgent want. When you broke away he let his forehead rest against yours and you allowed your eyes to close, leaning firmly into his touch, reveling in the pounding of your heart in tandem with his.

 

As you kissed him once more you were keenly aware of a poignant rustling somewhere between his legs, of his hands busy not at your waist but somewhere lower, though it didn’t dawn on you what exactly he was doing until you felt the heated throb of his shaft against your exposed thigh. You gasped in wanton surprise and your eyes flew open, catching his cerulean gaze with no small measure of lust.

 

“You truly want this, my Starling? You truly desire to be mine – utterly and completely – for all time?”

 

You swallowed heavily at the impression banked in his words, though the smile that curved your lips broke of its own accord, spurring a boundless happiness to fill your chest, making a flush stain your cheeks.

 

“More than anything, _meleth nin_ ,” you replied, your voice strong and your eyes filled with affection. Thranduil smiled then, a true smile, and you felt the effects of it all the way down to your soul, elation buzzing through your veins.

 

“Then I claim you, my Starlight, my _Peredhel_ , my Queen,” As he spoke Thranduil lined up the crown of his throbbing shaft with your weeping sex and as you felt him, molten and huge, against you your mouth suddenly felt as dry as a desert and you licked your lips as wicked lust rushed through your veins, “You are mine and I am yours.”

 

Abruptly Thranduil sank his length deep inside your aching sex, the fervent press and sweet slide of him making you moan and mewl and buck in his arms, your body shaking as you became accustomed to his sizeable girth.

 

“Until the stars fall from the heavens, the rivers of the world run dry and the earth turns fallow beneath our feet,” he was panting now, his jaw clenching and his arms tightening their hold on your thighs, his eyes meeting yours with a fiery mixture of want, love and pure devotion, “You are mine and I am yours.”

 

“Yes!” you groaned as he began to move in earnest, his hips pistioning urgently, his shaft plunging deep inside you, his arms like iron bands on your body, his fingers as unmovable as steel as they gripped your flesh, held you against him. You momentarily wondered if you’d gone mad as you felt your soul blending with his, your wills becoming one, but judging by the innate rightness of the feeling and the utter bliss coloring Thranduil’s features you guessed that this was supposed to happen, that this was part of the process.

 

So you let it; you welcomed the weight of his soul in yours, the bright spark of it searing in your veins, the heated joining of your bodies, the corporeal slapping of flesh, the urgent tightening of fingers, the shaky pressing of lips and twining of tongues.

 

You were no virgin, unlearned in the ways of the flesh, but even you had to admit that this was completely novel to you. This was more than a mere physical feeling; this was the wheeling heavens split opened and joined together anew within you, this was cosmic matrimony, sacramental coupling. This was the welding of two souls together, and it was utter _bliss_.

 

Every single one of your nerves was alight from Thranduil’s touch; from the fevered clasp of his fingers at the bared skin of your thighs, pulling your legs further apart, pressing you more fully against him, from the hot pressure of his lips against yours, playing at your pounding pulse or nipping at your ear, and from the delicious slip of his huge shaft inside you, the sweet slide of him at your sensitive flesh, wringing heated moans and jagged curses from your lips.

 

You’d never known bliss like this, had never felt so connected to another just from one physical act. With each jarring thrust Thranduil called out your name, repeated it like a plea as it fell from his lips. You begged him until you weren’t even sure what you were asking for; it all blended into guttural cries for _more_ and _harder_ and _yes_!

 

For just a moment, while he worked that glorious body over you, you thought you caught a glimpse of scarred skin stretching from his right jaw all the way up to his temple, terribly blistered flesh and angry red wounds tracking a grim pattern upon otherwise unspoiled flesh, but when you blinked it was gone as if it had never been. Somehow, perhaps instinctually, you knew that it was just a part of him, a piece of his stunning soul, so you accepted it and loved him anyway.  


He caught your gaze when suddenly, impossibly, his thrusts hastened, harshened, and looking into the unfathomable blue of his eyes you abruptly, without any warning, came undone in his arms. Your sex clenched wetly around him, your hips bucking uncontrollably as his name stuttered from your lips, and through it all he gazed deep into your eyes, groaning out his pleasure as he followed in his completion not far behind.

 

For the first time in your life you let yourself revel in the after shudders of such an intimacy. You didn’t rush to dress and leave, you didn’t demand or push, you just basked in the glow of Thranduil’s arms, leaning heavily against him, resting your cheek on his breast to feel his pounding heart. You loved the rhythmic huffs of his breath against your hair, the weary weight of his torso, the almost painful grip of his fingers. You loved him, all of him; scars and rage and kingly veneer. He was yours and you were his.

 

Amazingly, as you lay in the glow of each other’s arms, you began to laugh. You weren’t entirely sure who began it, but it felt so right, that simple outward expression of total joy, so you didn’t stop, even as you helped each other dress and put right hair made askew by seeking hands or clothes abandoned in lustful heat. As he helped you re-secure your greaves and bracers you still felt the need to have him close, to feel his body once more, even though you’d just had him in the most complete way possible. You suspected that feeling, wanting intimacy, craving it with him, wouldn’t go away anytime soon, not now that you harbored a piece of his soul within your own.

 

And, as you watched him attempt to don his shining breastplate once more, handsome brow furrowed as he muttered something under his breath about how he was amazed you’d ripped the damned thing off by yourself, you mused that you really didn’t want it too.

 

You were so caught up in blissful thoughts of your Elvenking and the profound positive implications that your cataclysmic encounter on this mountain would mean for your future that you didn’t catch the shifting of acrid cloth and ragged flesh in the distance, or the gleam of a foul weapon as it was notched far to your right. You certainly didn’t hear it whizzing through the air, or perceive it flying menacingly towards you.

 

No, you were too caught up in the way Thranduil’s hair had just the slightest frizz to it, an amazing sight that you had never quite had the pleasure of witnessing before, and were busy thinking about how you’d love to go smooth those starlit strands for him, and maybe grace his lips with another kiss. And then another.

 

You didn’t notice until sharp, lashing pain bit suddenly into your back, just beneath your shoulder blade, knocking the breath from your lungs, biting and stinging like a viper’s acrid bite. At first you didn’t even register the arrow point sticking out of your chest, bursting from your tunic and mail like a macabre reminder of your mortality, not until your vision blackened and you had trouble drawing a full inhalation.

 

The last thing you saw until your world faded to nothingness was Thranduil’s pained, appalled expression as he sprinted towards you, trying valiantly to catch your falling form.

 

You weren’t even sure if he succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments of support! I can't tell you how much they mean to me <3
> 
> Here is the chapter we've all been waiting for! If you loved it raise your hand! I'm sorry for the cliff hanger ending, but we couldn't get too happy just yet, now could we?? I promise it will be resolved very soon, but our Elvenking is just gonna have to sweat it for the time being :(
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter, and again thank you so much for your wonderful support!
> 
> Mood board coming soon!
> 
> Edit - Moodboard here! http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/161856903659/bound-in-blight-and-bliss-chapter-12-faithful-and


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